! 


\ 


DC  GAUF.  LHWARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


DRAWN  BY  A.    B.    FROST.        HI 


LF-TONE  ENGRAVED  BY  F.   H.   WELLINGTON. 


AND  THE  SHERIFF  AND  CANADA  CENTER  WAS  SQUEEZING  THEM- 
SELVES  THROUGH  THE  GATE." 


T  i  o  b  a 


©tber  Hales 


By      ARTHUR      COLTON 

WITH    A    FRONTISPIECE    BY   A.    B.    FROST 


NEW   YORK 
HENRY   HOLT  AND   COMPANY 

1903 


Copyright,  1903,  by  HENRY  HOLT  &  Co. 


Certain  Stories  in  this  volume  were  copyrighted 
separately  as  follows : 

Tioba.  Copyright,  1900,  by  The  Century  Co. 
— A  Ma*  for  c?  That.  Copyright,  1899,  by  Ar- 
thur Colton. —  The  Green  Grasshopper.  Copy- 
right, 1897,  by  The  America  Co. —  The  Enemies. 
Copyright,  1901,  by  Arthur  Colton. — A  Night's 
Lodging.  Copyright,  1902,  by  Houghton,  Mifflin 
&  Co. — On  Edotn  Hill.  Copyright,  1901,  by  Ar- 
thur Colton. — Sons  ofR.  Rand.  Copyright,  1898. 
by  The  America  Co.—Conlon.  Copyright,  1900, 
by  The  Century  Co.— St.  Catherine^.  Copy- 
right, 1898,  by  The  America  Co. —  The  Spiral 
Stone.  Copyright,  1901,  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  & 
Co. —  The  Musidora  Sonnet.  Copyright,  1901, 
by  Frank  Leslie's  Publishing  House. 


Published  February,  ipoj. 


BURR  PRINTING   HOUSE, 
NEW   YORK. 


DEDICATED  TO 
A.  G.  BRINSMADE 


2128197 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TlOBA., I 

A  MAN  FOR  A'  THAT, .29 

THE  GREEN   GRASSHOPPER,          ....  47 

THE  ENEMIES, 61 

A  NIGHT'S  LODGING, 90 

ON  EDOM  HILL, 122 

SONS  OF  R.  RAND, 150 

CONLON, 167 

ST.    CATHERINE'S, 183 

THE  SPIRAL  STONE, 199 

THE  MUSIDORA  SONNET, 207 


Tiob  a 

FROM  among  the  birches  and  pines, 
where  we  pitched  our  moving  tent, 
you  looked  over  the  flat  meadow-lands; 
and  through  these  went  a  river,  slow  and 
almost  noiseless,  wandering  in  the  valley 
as  if  there  were  no  necessity  of  arriving 
anywhere  at  appointed  times.  "What  is 
the  necessity?"  it  said  softly  to  any  that 
would  listen.  And  there  was  none;  so  that 
for  many  days  the  white  tent  stood  among 
the  trees,  overlooking  the  haycocks  in  the 
meadows.  It  was  enough  business  in  hand 
to  study  the  philosophy  and  the  subtle 
rhetoric  of  Still  River. 

Opposite  rose  a  strangely  ruined  moun- 
tain-side. There  was  a  nobly  poised  head 
and  plenteous  chest,  the  head  three  thousand 


2  Tioba 

feet  nearer  the  stars — which  was  little 
enough  from  their  point  of  view,  no  doubt, 
but  to  us  it  seemed  a  symbol  of  something 
higher  than  the  stars,  something  beyond 
them  forever  waiting  and  watching. 

From  its  feet  upward  half  a  mile  the 
mountain  was  one  raw  wound.  The  shiv- 
ered roots  and  tree-trunks  stuck  out  help- 
lessly from  reddish  soil,  boulders  were 
crushed  and  piled  in  angry  heaps,  veins  of 
granite  ripped  open — the  skin  and  flesh  of 
the  mountain  torn  off  with  a  curse,  and  the 
bones  made  a  mockery.  The  wall  of  the 
precipice  rose  far  above  this  desolation,  and, 
beyond,  the  hazy  forests  went  up  a  mile  or 
more  clear  to  the  sky-line.  The  peak  stood 
over  all,  not  with  triumph  or  with  shame, 
but  with  the  clouds  and  stars. 

It  was  a  cloudy  day,  with  rifts  of  sunlight. 
An  acre  of  light  crept  down  the  mountain: 
so  you  have  seen,  on  the  river-boats  at  night, 
the  search-light  feeling,  fingering  along  the 
shore. 


Tioba  3 

In  the  evening  an  Arcadian,  an  elderly 
man  and  garrulous,  came  up  to  see  what  it 
might  be  that  glimmered  among  his  pulp- 
trees.  He  was  a  surprise,  and  not  as  Arca- 
dian as  at  first  one  might  presume,  for  he 
sold  milk  and  eggs  and  blueberries  at  a 
price  to  make  one  suddenly  rich.  His  name 
was  Fargus,  and  he  it  was  whose  hay- 
cutter  clicked  like  a  locust  all  day  in  the 
meadow-lands.  He  came  and  made  himself 
amiable  beside  us,  and  confided  anything  we 
might  care  to  know  which  experience  had 
left  with  him. 

"That's  Tioba,"  he  said.  "That's  the 
name  of  that  mountain."  And  he  told  us  the 
story  of  one  whom  he  called  "Jim  Hawks," 
and  of  the  fall  of  Tioba : 

She's  a  skinned  mountain  [he  said]. 
She  got  wet  inside  and  slid.  Still  River 
used  to  run  ten  rods  further  in,  and  there 
was  a  cemetery,  too,  and  Jim  Hawks's  place ; 
and  the  cemetery's  there  yet,  six  rods  under- 


4  Tioba 

ground,  but  the  creek  shied  off  and  went 
through  my  plough-land  scandalous. 

Now,  Jim  Hawks  was  a  get-there  kind, 
with  a  clawed  face — by  a  wildcat,  yes,  sir. 
Tioba  got  there;  and  Jim  he  was  a  wicked 
one.  I've  been  forty  years  in  this  valley, 
with  the  Petersons  and  the  Storrses  and  the 
Merimys  at  Canada  Center,  all  good,  quiet 
folk.  And  nothing  happened  to  us,  for  we 
did  nothing  to  blame,  till  Jim  came,  and 
Tioba  ups  and  drops  on  him. 

Now  look  at  it,  this  valley!  There' ve 
been  landslides  over  beyond  in  Helder's 
valley,  but  there's  only  one  in  mine.  Looks 
as  if  the  devil  gone  spit  on  it.  It's  Jim 
Hawks's  trail. 

He  come  one  day  with  a  buckboard  and  a 
yellow  horse,  and  he  says: 

"Sell  me  that  land  from  here  up  the 
mountain." 

"Who  be  you  ?"  says  I. 

"Jim  Hawks,"  says  he,  and  that's  all  he 
appeared  to  know  about  it.  And  he  bought 


Tioba  5 

the  land,  and  put  up  a  house  close  to  the 
mountain,  so  you  could  throw  a  cat  down  his 
chimney  if  you  wanted  to,  or  two  cats  if  you 
had  'em. 

He  was  a  long,  swing-shouldered  man, 
with  a  light-colored  mustache  and  a  kind  of 
flat  gray  eye  that  you  couldn't  see  into.  You 
look  into  a  man's  eye  naturally  to  see  what 
his  intentions  are.  Well,  Jim  Hawks's  eye 
appeared  to  have  nothing  to  say  on  the  sub- 
ject. And  as  to  that,  I  told  my  wife  it  was 
none  of  our  business  if  he  didn't  bring  into 
the  valley  anything  but  his  name  and  a  bit 
of  money  sufficient. 

He  got  his  face  clawed  by  a  wildcat  by 
being  reckless  with  it ;  and  he  ran  a  deer  into 
Helder's  back  yard  once  and  shot  it,  and 
licked  Helder  for  claiming  the  deer.  He  was 
the  recklessest  chap !  He  swings  his  fist  into 
Helder's  face,  and  he  says : 

"Shoot,  if  you  got  a  gun.  If  you  hain't, 
get  out !" 

I  told  Jim  that  was  no  place  to  put  a 


6  Tioba 

house,  on  account  of  Tioba  dropping  rocks 
off  herself  whenever  it  rained  hard  and  the 
soil  got  mushy.  I  told  him  Tioba'd  as  soon 
drop  a  rock  on  his  head  as  into  his  gridiron. 
You  can't  see  Canada  Center  from  here. 
There's  a  post-office  there,  and  three  houses, 
the  Petersons',  the  Storrses'  and  the  Meri- 
mys'.  Merimy's  house  got  a  peaked  roof  on 
it.  I  see  Jeaney  Merimy  climb  it  after  her 
kitten  a-yowling  on  the  ridge.  She  wasn't 
but  six  years  old  then,  and  she  was  gritty  the 
day  she  was  born.  Her  mother — she's  old 
Peterson's  daughter — she  whooped,  and  I 
fetched  Jeaney  down  with  Peterson's  ladder. 
Jeaney  Merimy  grew  up,  and  she  was  a  tidy 
little  thing.  The  Storrs  boys  calculated  to 
marry  her,  one  of  'em,  only  they  weren't  en- 
terprising; and  Jeaney  ups  and  goes  over  to 
Eastport  one  day  with  Jim  Hawks — cuts  out 
early  in  the  morning,  and  asks  nobody. 
Pretty  goings  on  in  this  valley !  Then  they 
come  back  when  they  were  ready,  and  Jim 
says: 


Tioba  7 

"What  you  got  to  say  about  it,  Merimy  ?" 

Merimy  hadn't  nothing  to  say  about  it, 
nor  his  wife  hadn't  nothing  to  say,  nor 
Peterson,  nor  the  Storrs  boys.  Dog-gone  it ! 
Nobody  hadn't  nothing  to  say ;  that  is,  they 
didn't  say  it  to  Jim. 

That  was  five  years  ago,  the  spring  they 
put  up  the  Redman  Hotel  at  Helder's.  Peo- 
ple's come  into  these  parts  now  thicker'n 
bugs.  They  have  a  band  that  plays  music  at 
the  Redman  Hotel.  But  in  my  time  I've  seen 
sights.  The  bears  used  to  scoop  my  chick- 
ens. You  could  hear  wildcats  'most  any 
night  crying  in  the  brush.  I  see  a  black  bear 
come  down  Jumping  Brook  over  there,  slap- 
ping his  toes  in  the  water  and  grunting  like 
a  pig.  Me,  I  was  ploughing  for  buckwheat. 

Jeaney  Merimy  went  over  to  Eastport 
with  her  hair  in  a  braid,  and  came  back  with 
it  put  up  like  a  crow's  nest  on  top  of  her 
head.  She  was  a  nice-looking  girl,  Jeaney, 
and  born  gritty,  and  it  didn't  do  her  any 
good. 


8  Tioba 

I  says  to  Jim :  "Now,  you're  always  look- 
ing for  fighting,"  says  I.  "Now,  me, 
I'm  for  peaceable  doings.  If  you're  looking 
for  fighting  any  time,  you  start  in  beyond 
me." 

"You !"  says  Jim.  "I'd  as  soon  scrap  with 
a  haystack." 

I  do'  know  how  it  would  be,  doing  with  a 
haystack  that  way,  but  you  take  it  from 
Jim's  point  of  view,  and  you  see  it  wouldn't 
be  what  he'd  care  for ;  and  you  take  it  from 
my  point  of  view,  and  you  see  I  didn't  poke 
into  Jim's  business.  That's  natural  good 
sense.  Only  I'm  free  to  say  he  was  a 
wicked  one,  'stilling  whiskey  on  the  back  side 
of  Tioba,  and  filling  up  the  Storrs  boys  with 
it,  and  them  gone  to  the  devil  off  East  where 
the  railroads  are.  And  laying  Peterson  to 
his  front  door,  drunk.  My,  he  didn't  know 
any  more'n  his  front  door!  "He's  my 
grandfather,"  says  Jim.  "That's  the  humor 
of  it" — meaning  he  was  Jeaney's  grand- 


Tioba  9 

father.  And  mixing  the  singularest  drinks, 
and  putting  'em  into  an  old  man  named 
Fargus,  as  ought  to  known  better.  My  wife 
she  said  so,  and  she  knew.  I  do'  know  what 
Jeaney  Merimy  thought,  but  I  had  my  point 
of  view  on  that.  Jim  got  drunk  himself  on 
and  off,  and  went  wilder'n  a  wildcat,  and  slid 
over  the  mountains  the  Lord  knows  where. 
Pretty  goings  on  in  this  valley! 

This  is  a  good  climate  if  you  add  it  all  up 
and  take  the  average.  But  sometimes  it 
won't  rain  till  you're  gray  waiting  for  it, 
and  sometimes  it  will  snow  so  the  only  way 
to  get  home  is  to  stay  inside,  and  sometimes 
it  will  rain  like  the  bottom  fallen  out  of  a 
tub.  The  way  of  it  is  that  when  you've 
lived  with  it  forty  years  you  know  how  to 
add  up  and  take  the  average. 

That  summer  Tioba  kept  her  head  out 
of  sight  from  June  to  September  mainly. 
She  kept  it  done  up  in  cotton,  as  you  might 
say,  and  she  leaked  in  her  joints  surprising. 
She's  a  queer  mountain  that  way.  Every 


i  o  Tioba 

now  and  then  she  busts  out  a  spring  and 
dribbles  down  into  Still  River  from  a  new 
place. 

In  September  they  were  all  dark  days  and 
drizzly  nights,  and  there  was  often  the  two 
sounds  of  the  wind  on  Tioba  that  you  hear 
on  a  bad  night.  One  of  'em  is  a  kind  of 
steady  grumble  and  hiss  that's  made  with 
the  pine-needles  and  maybe  the  tons  of 
leaves  shaking  and  falling.  The  other  is  the 
toot  of  the  wind  in  the  gullies  on  edges  of 
rock.  But  if  you  stand  in  the  open  on  a  bad 
night  and  listen,  you'd  think  Tioba  was  talk- 
ing to  you.  Maybe  she  is. 

It  come  along  the  middle  of  September, 
and  it  was  a  bad  night,  drizzly,  and  Tioba 
talking  double.  I  went  over  to  the  Hawkses' 
place  early  to  borrow  lantern-oil,  and  I  saw 
Jeaney  Merimy  sitting  over  the  fire  alone, 
and  the  wind  singing  in  the  chimney.  "]im 
hasn't  come,"  she  says,  speaking  quiet;  and 
she  gets  me  the  lantern-oil.  After,  when  I 
went  away,  she  didn't  seem  to  notice;  and 


Tioba  1 1 

what  with  the  wind  in  the  chimney,  and 
Jeaney  sitting  alone  with  her  big  black  eyes 
staring,  and  Tioba  talking  double,  and  the 
rain  drizzling,  and  the  night  falling,  I  felt 
queer  enough  to  expect  a  ghost  to  be  stand- 
ing at  my  gate.  And  I  came  along  the  road, 
and  there  was  one! 

Yes,  sir ;  she  was  a  woman  in  a  gray,  wet 
cloak,  standing  at  my  gate,  and  a  horse  and 
buggy  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 

"  'Mighty !"  says  I,  and  drops  my  oil-can 
smack  in  the  mud. 

"Does  Mr.  Hawks  live  here?"  she  says, 
seeing  me  standing  like  a  tomfool  in  the 
mud. 

"No,  ma'am,"  says  I.  "That's  his  place 
across  the  flat  half  a  mile.  He  ain't  at  home, 
but  his  wife  is." 

The  wind  blew  her  cloak  around  her 
sharp,  and  I  could  see  her  face,  though  it  was 
more  or  less  dark.  She  was  some  big  and 
tall,  and  her  face  was  white  and  wet  with  the 
rain.  After  a  while  she  says : 


1 2  Tioba 

"He's  married?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  You'd  better  not  — 
'Mighty,  ma'am !"  says  I,  "where  you  go- 
ing?" 

She  swung  herself  into  the  buggy  quicker'n 
women  are  apt  to  do,  and  she  whops  the 
horse  around  and  hits  him  a  lick,  and  off  he 
goes,  splashing  and  galloping.  Me,  I  was 
beat.  But  I  got  so  far  as  to  think  if  she 
wasn't  a  ghost,  maybe  Jim  Hawks  would  as 
lief  she  would  be,  and  if  she  didn't  drive 
more  careful  she'd  be  liable  to  oblige  him 
that  way.  Because  it  stands  to  reason  a 
woman  don't  come  looking  for  a  man  on  a 
bad  night,  and  cut  away  like  that,  unless  she 
has  something  uncommon  on  her  mind.  I 
heard  the  buggy-wheels  and  the  splash  of 
the  horse  dying  away;  and  then  there  was 
nothing  in  the  night  but  the  drip  of  the  rain 
and  Tioba  talking  double — urn-hiss,  toot- 
toot. 

Then  I  went  into  the  house,  and  didn't 
tell  my  wife  about  it,  she  disliking  Jim  on 


Tioba  1 3 

account  of  his  singular  drinks,  which  had  a 
tidy  taste,  but  affecting  a  man  sudden  and 
surprising.  My  wife  she  went  off  to  bed, 
and  I  sat  by  the  fire,  feeling  like  there  was 
more  wrong  in  the  world  than  common.  And 
I  kept  thinking  of  Jeaney  Merimy  sitting  by 
herself  off  there  beyond  the  rain,  with  the 
wind  singing  in  the  chimney,  and  Tioba 
groaning  and  tooting  over  her.  Then  there 
was  the  extra  woman  looking  for  Jim;  and 
it  seemed  to  me  if  I  was  looking  for  Jim  on 
a  dark  night,  I'd  want  to  let  him  know 
beforehand  it  was  all  peaceable,  so  there 
wouldn't  be  a  mistake,  Jim  being  a  sudden 
man  and  not  particular.  I  had  the  extra 
woman  on  my  mind,  so  that  after  some  while 
it  seemed  to  me  she  had  come  back  and  was 
driving  splish-splash  around  my  house, 
though  it  was  only  the  wind.  I  was  that 
foolish  I  kept  counting  how  many  times  she 
went  round  the  house,  and  it  was  more  than 
forty;  and  sometimes  she  came  so  close  to 
the  front  door  I  thought  she'd  come  through 
it — bang! 


1 4  Tioba 

Then  somebody  rapped  sudden  at  the 
door,  and  I  jumped,  and  my  chair  went  slap 
under  the  table,  and  I  says,  "Come  in," 
though  I'd  rather  it  would  have  stayed  out, 
and  in  walks  Jim  Hawks.  "  'Mighty !"  says 
I.  "I  thought  you  was  a  horse  and  buggy." 

He  picked  up  my  chair  and  sat  in  it  him- 
self, rather  cool,  and  began  to  dry  off. 

"Horse  and  buggy?"  says  he.  "Looking 
for  me?" 

I  just  nodded,  seeing  he  appeared  to  know 
all  about  it. 

"Saw  'em  in  Eastport,"  says  he.  "I  sup- 
pose she's  over  there" — meaning  his  place. 
"Gone  down  the  road!  You  don't  say! 
Now,  I  might  have  known  she  wouldn't  do 
what  you  might  call  a  rational  thing.  Never 
could  bet  on  that  woman.  If  there  was  one 
of  two  things  she'd  be  likely  to  do,  she 
wouldn't  do  either  of  'em." 

"Well,"  says  I,  "speaking  generally,  what 
might  she  want  of  you  ?" 


Tioba  1 5 

Jim  looks  at  me  kind  of  absent  minded, 
rubbing  his  hair  the  wrong  way. 

"Now,  look  at  it,  Fargus,"  he  says.  "It 
ain't  reasonable.  Now,  she  and  me,  we  got 
married  about  five  years  ago.  And  she  had 
a  brother  named  Tom  Cheever,  and  Tom  and 
I  didn't  agree,  and  naturally  he  got  hurt; 
not  but  that  he  got  well  again — that  is, 
partly.  And  she  appeared  to  have  different 
ideas  from  me,  and  she  appeared  to  think 
she'd  had  enough  of  me,  and  I  took  that  to 
be  reasonable.  Now,  here  she  wants  me  to 
come  back  and  behave  myself,  cool  as  you 
please.  And  me  inquiring  why,  she  acts  like 
the  country  was  too  small  for  us  both.  I 
don't  see  it  that  way  myself."  And  he  shook 
his  head,  stretching  his  hands  out  over  the 
fire. 

"I  don't  see  either  end  of  it,"  says  I. 
"You're  a  bad  one,  Jim,  a  downright  bad 
one." 

"That's  so.      It's  Jeaney  you  mean,"  he 


1 6  Tioba 

says,  looking  kind  of  interested.  "It'll  be 
hell  for  Jeaney,  won't  it?" 

The  wind  and  rain  was  whooping  round 
the  house  so  we  could  hardly  hear  each  other. 
It  was  like  a  wild  thing  trying  to  get  in, 
which  didn't  know  how  to  do  it,  and 
wouldn't  give  up;  and  then  you'd  hear  like 
something  whimpering,  and  little  fingers 
tapping  at  the  window-glass. 

My  opinion  of  Jim  Hawks  was  that  I 
didn't  seem  to  get  on  to  him,  and  that's  my 
opinion  up  to  now;  and  it  appeared  to  me 
then  that  Jim  might  be  the  proper  explana- 
tion himself  of  anything  the  extra  woman 
did  which  seemed  unreasonable;  but  I  didn't 
tell  him  that,  because  I  didn't  see  rightly 
what  it  would  mean  if  I  said  it. 

Jim  got  up  and  stretched  his  legs.  "Now, 
I  tell  you,  Fargus,"  says  he,  "I'm  going  to 
put  the  thing  to  Jeaney,  being  a  clipper  little 
woman,  not  to  say  sharp.  If  it  comes  to  the 
worst,  I  daresay  Canada  Center  will  give  us 
a  burying;  or  if  she  wants  to  slide  over  the 


Tioba  17 

mountains  with  me,  there's  no  trouble  about 
it;  or  if  she'd  rather  go  her  own  way, 
and  me  mine,  that's  reasonable;  or  if  she  says 
to  do  nothing  but  hold  the  fort,  why,  that's 
all  right,  too,  only  Canada  Center  would  be 
likely  to  take  a  hand,  and  then  there'd  sure- 
ly be  trouble,  on  account  of  me  getting  mad. 
Now,  I  have  to  say  to  you,  Fargus,  that 
you've  been  as  friendly  as  a  man  could  be, 
as  things  are;  and  maybe  you've  seen  the 
last  of  me,  and  maybe  you  wouldn't  mind 
if  you  had." 

"Speaking  generally,"  says  I,  "you're 
about  right,  Jim." 

With  that  he  laughed,  and  went  out,  pull- 
ing the  door  to  hard  against  the  storm. 

Next  day  the  rain  came  streaming  down, 
and  my  cellar  was  flooded,  and  the  valley 
was  full  of  the  noise  of  the  flood  brooks.  I 
kept  looking  toward  the  Hawkses'  place, 
having  a  kind  of  notion  something  would 
blow  up  there.  It  appeared  to  me  there  was 
too  much  gunpowder  in  that  family  for  the 


1 8  Tioba 

house  to  stay  quiet.  Besides,  I  saw  Tioba 
had  been  dropping  rocks  in  the  night,  and 
there  were  new  boulders  around.  One  had 
ploughed  through  Jim's  yard,  and  the  road 
was  cut  up  frightful.  The  boulder  in  Jim's 
yard  looked  as  if  it  might  be  eight  feet  high. 
I  told  my  wife  the  Hawkses  ought  to  get  out 
of  there,  and  she  said  she  didn't  care,  she 
being  down  on  Jim  on  account  of  his  mixed 
drinks,  which  had  a  way  of  getting  under  a 
man,  I'm  free  to  say,  and  heaving  him  up. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  it 
come  off  misty,  and  I  started  over  to  tell  Jim 
he'd  better  get  out;  and  sudden  I  stops  and 
looks,  for  there  was  a  crowd  coming  from 
Canada  Center — the  Storrses  and  the  Peter- 
sons and  the  Merimys,  and  the  extra  woman 
in  a  buggy  with  Henry  Hall,  who  was  coun- 
ty sheriff  then.  "Well,  'Mighty !"  says  I. 

They  pulled  up  in  front  of  Jim's  place,  and 
I  took  it  they  were  going  to  walk  in  and  set- 
tle things  prompt.  But  you  see,  when  I 
got  there,  it  was  Jim  a-standing  by  his  door 


Tioba  i 9 

with  his  rifle,  and  the  sheriff  and  Canada 
Center  was  squeezing  themselves  through 
the  gate  and  Jim  shooting  off  sideways  at 
the  pickets  on  his  fence.  And  the  sheriff 
ups  and  yelled: 

"Here,  you  Jim  Hawks!  That  ain't  any 
way  to  do." 

Then  Jim  walks  down  the  road  with  his 
rifle  over  his  arm,  and  Jeaney  Merimy  comes 
to  the  door.  She  looked  some  mad  and  some 
crying,  a  little  of  both. 

"Hall,"  says  he,  "you  turn  your  horse  and 
go  back  where  you  come  from.  Maybe  I'll 
see  you  by  and  by.  The  rest  of  you  go  back 
to  Canada  Center,  and  if  Jeaney  wants  any- 
thing of  you  she'll  come  and  say  so.  You 
go,  now !" 

And  they  went.  The  extra  woman  drove 
off  with  the  sheriff,  hanging  her  head,  and 
the  sheriff  saying,  "You'll  have  to  come  to 
time,  Jim  Hawks,  soon  or  late."  Jeaney 
Merimy  sat  in  the  door  with  her  head  hung 
down,  too ;  and  the  only  one  as  ought  to  have 


2o  Tioba 

been  ashamed,  he  was  walking  around  up- 
pish, like  he  meant  to  call  down  Tioba  for 
throwing  rocks  into  his  yard.  Then  Jeaney 
sees  me,  and  she  says : 

"You're  all  down  on  Jim.  There's  no  one 
but  me  to  stand  up  for  Jim." 

She  began  to  cry,  while  Jim  cocked  his 
head  and  looked  at  her  curious.  And  she 
kept  saying,  "There's  no  one  but  me  to  stand 
up  for  Jim." 

That  was  a  queer  way  for  her  to  look  at  it. 

Now,  that  night  set  in,  like  the  one  before, 
with  a  drizzling  rain.  It  was  the  longest  wet 
weather  I  ever  knew.  I  kept  going  to  the 
window  to  look  at  the  light  over  at  the 
Hawkses'  and  wonder  what  would  come  of 
it,  till  it  made  my  wife  nervous,  and  she's 
apt  to  be  sharp  when  she's  nervous,  so  I 
quit.  And  the  way  Tioba  talked  double  that 
night  was  terrible — urn-hiss,  toot-toot,  hour 
after  hour;  and  no  sleep  for  me  and  my 
wife,  being  nervous. 

I  do'  know  what  time  it  was,  or  what  we 


Tioba  2 1 

heard.  All  I  know  is,  my  wife  jumps  up 
with  a  yell,  and  I  jumps  up  too,  and  I  know 
we  were  terrible  afraid  and  stood  listening 
maybe  a  minute.  It  seemed  like  there  was 
almost  dead  silence  in  the  night,  only  the 
um-m  went  on,  but  no  hissing  and  no  toot- 
ing, and  if  there  was  any  sound  of  the  rain 
or  wind  I  don't  recollect  it.  And  then, 
"Urn!"  says  Tioba,  louder  and  louder  and 
louder!  till  there  was  no  top  nor  bottom  to 
it,  and  the  whole  infernal  world  went  to 
pieces,  and  pitched  me  and  my  wife  flat  on 
the  floor. 

The  first  I  knew,  there  was  dead  silence 
again;  or  maybe  my  hearing  was  upset,  for 
soon  after  I  began  to  hear  the  rain  buzzing 
away  quietly.  Then  I  got  up  and  took  a 
lantern,  and  my  wife  grabs  me. 

"You  ain't  going  a  step!"  says  she,  and 
the  upshot  was  we  both  went,  two  old  folks 
that  was  badly  scared  and  bound  to  find  out 
why.  We  went  along  the  road,  looking 
about  us  cautious;  and  of  a  sudden,  where 


22  Tioba 

the  road  ought  to  be,  we  ran  into  a  bank  of 
mud  that  went  up  out  of  seeing  in  the  night. 
Then  my  wife  sat  down  square  in  the  road 
and  began  a-crying,  and  I  knew  Tioba  had 
fallen  down. 

Now,  there's  Tioba,  and  that's  how  she 
looked  next  morning,  only  worse — more 
mushy  and  generally  clawed  up,  with  the 
rain  still  falling  dismal,  and  running  little 
gullies  in  the  mud  like  a  million  snakes. 

According  to  my  guess,  Jim  and  Jeaney 
and  the  cemetery  were  about  ten  rods  in,  or 
maybe  not  more  than  eight.  Anyway,  I  says 
to  Peterson,  and  he  agreed  with  me,  that 
there  wasn't  any  use  for  a  funeral.  I  says : 
"God  A'mighty  buried  'em  to  suit  himself." 
It  looked  like  he  didn't  think  much  of  the 
way  Canada  Center  did  its  burying,  seeing 
the  cemetery  was  took  in  and  buried  over 
again.  Peterson  and  me  thought  the  same 
on  that  point.  And  we  put  up  the  white 
stone,  sort  of  on  top  of  things,  that  maybe 


Tioba  23 

you've  noticed,  and  lumped  the  folk  in  the 
cemetery  together,  and  put  their  names  on 
it,  and  a  general  epitaph;  but  not  being 
strong  on  the  dates,  we  left  them  out  mostly. 
We  put  Jeaney  Merimy  with  her  family,  but 
Canada  Center  was  singularly  united  against 
letting  Jim  in. 

"You  puts  his  name  on  no  stone  with  me 
or  mine,"  says  Merimy,  and  I'm  not  saying 
but  what  he  was  right.  Yes,  sir;  Merimy 
had  feelings,  naturally.  But  it  seemed  to 
me  when  a  man  was  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
underground,  more  or  less,  there  ought  to  be 
some  charity;  and  maybe  I  had  a  weakness 
for  Jim,  though  my  wife  wouldn't  hear  of 
him,  on  account  of  his  drinks,  which  were 
slippery  things.  Anyway,  I  takes  a  chisel 
and  a  mallet,  and  I  picks  out  a  boulder  on 
the  slide  a  decent  ways  from  Canada  Cen- 
ter's monument,  and  I  cuts  in  it,  "Jim 
Hawks";  and  then  I  cuts  in  it  an  epitaph 
that  I  made  myself,  and  it's  there  yet : 


24  Tioba 

HERE  LIES  JIM  HAWKS,  KILLED  BY  ROCKS. 
HE  DIDN'T  ACT  THE  WAY  HE  OUGHT. 
THAT'S  ALL  I'LL  SAY  OF  JIM. 
HERE  HE  LIES,  WHAT'S  LEFT  OF  HIM. 

And  I  thought  that  stated  the  facts,  though 
the  second  line  didn't  rhyme  really  even. 
Speaking  generally,  Tioba  appeared  to  have 
dropped  on  things  about  the  right  time,  and 
that  being  so,  why  not  let  it  pass,  granting 
Merimy  had  a  right  to  his  feelings  ? 

Now,  neither  Sheriff  Hall  nor  the  extra 
woman  showed  up  in  the  valley  any  more,  so 
it  seemed  likely  they  had  heard  of  Tioba 
falling,  and  agreed  Jim  wouldn't  be  any 
good,  if  they  could  find  him.  It  was  two 
weeks  more  before  I  saw  the  sheriff,  him 
driving  through,  going  over  to  Helder's.  I 
saw  him  get  out  of  his  buggy  to  see  the 
monument,  and  I  went  up  after,  and  led  him 
over  to  show  Jim's  epitaph,  which  I  took  to 
be  a  good  epitaph,  except  the  second  line. 

Now,  what  do  you  think  he  did?     Why, 


Tioba  25 

he  busted  out  a-haw-hawing  ridiculous,  and 
it  made  me  mad. 

"Shut  up !"  says  I.    "What's  ailing  you  ?" 

"Haw-haw!"  says  he.  "Jim  ain't  there! 
He's  gone  down  the  road." 

"I  believe  you're  a  blamed  liar,"  says  I; 
and  the  sheriff  sobered  up,  being  mad  him- 
self, and  he  told  me  this. 

"Jim  Hawks,"  says  he,  "came  into  East- 
port  that  night,  meaning  business.  He 
routed  me  out  near  twelve  o'clock,  and  the 
lady  staying  at  my  house  she  came  into  it, 
too,  and  there  we  had  it  in  the  kitchen  at 
twelve  o'clock,  the  lady  uncommon  hot,  and 
Jim  steaming  wet  in  his  clothes  and  rather 
cool.  He  says :  'I'm  backing  Jeaney  now, 
and  she  tells  me  to  come  in  and  settle  it  to 
let  us  alone,  and  she  says  we'll  hand  over 
all  we've  got  and  leave.  That  appears  to  be 
her  idea,  and  being  hers,  I'll  put  it  as  my 
own.'  Now,  the  lady,  if  you'd  believe  it, 
she  took  on  fearful,  and  wouldn't  hear  to 
reason  unless  he'd  go  with  her,  though  what 


26  Tioba 

her  idea  was  of  a  happy  time  with  Jim 
Hawks,  the  way  he  was  likely  to  act,  I  give 
it  up.  But  she  cried  and  talked  foolish,  till 
I  see  Jim  was  awful  bored,  but  I  didn't  see 
there  was  much  for  me  to  do.  Then  Jim  got 
up  at  last,  and  laughed  very  unpleasant,  and 
he  says :  'It's  too  much  bother.  I'll  go  with 
you,  Annie,  but  I  think  you're  a  fool.'  And 
they  left  next  morning,  going  south  by 
train." 

That's  what  Sheriff  Hall  said  to  me  then 
and  there.  Well,  now,  I'm  an  old  man,  and 
I  don't  know  as  I'm  particular  clever,  but 
it  looks  to  me  as  if  God  A'mighty  and  Tioba 
had  made  a  mistake  between  'em.  Else  how 
come  they  hit  at  Jim  Hawks  so  close  as  that 
and  missed  him  ?  And  what  was  the  use  of 
burying  Jeaney  Merimy  eight  rods  deep, 
who  was  a  good  girl  all  her  life,  and  was 
for  standing  up  for  Jim,  and  him  leaving  her 
because  the  extra  woman  got  him  disgusted  ? 
Maybe  she'd  rather  Tioba  would  light  on 
her,  that  being  the  case — maybe  she  would 


Tioba  27 

have;  but  she  never  knew  what  the  case 
was. 

That  epitaph  is  there  yet,  as  you  might 
say,  waiting  for  him  to  come  and  get  under 
it;  but  it  don't  seem  to  have  the  right  point 
now,  and  it  don't  state  the  facts  any  more, 
except  the  second  line,  which  is  more  facts 
than  rhyme.  And  Tioba  is  the  messiest-look- 
ing mountain  in  these  parts.  And  now,  I 
say,  Jim  Hawks  was  in  this  valley  little  more 
than  a  year,  and  he  blazed  his  trail  through 
the  Merimy  family,  and  the  Storrs  family, 
and  the  Peterson  family,  and  there's  Tioba 
Mountain,  and  that's  his  trail. 

No,  sir ;  I  don't  get  on  to  it.  I  hear  Tioba 
talking  double  some  nights,  sort  of  uneasy, 
and  it  seems  to  me  she  isn't  on  to  it  either, 
and  has  her  doubts  maybe  she  throwed  her- 
self away.  And  there's  the  cemetery  six  to 
ten  rods  underground,  with  a  monument  to 
forty-five  people  on  top,  and  an  epitaph 
to  Jim  Hawks  that  ain't  so,  except  the  sec- 
ond line,  there  being  no  corpse  to  fit  it. 


28  Tioba 

Canada  Center  thinks  they'd  fit  Jim  to  it 
if  he  came  round  again;  but  they  wouldn't: 
for  he  was  a  wicked  one,  but  sudden  to  act, 
and  he  was  reckless,  and  he  kept  his  luck. 
For  Tioba  drawed  off  and  hit  at  him,  slap! 
and  he  dodged  her. 


A  Man  for  a5  That 

COMPANY  A  was  cut  up  at  Antietam, 
so  that  there  was  not  enough  of  it  left 
for  useful  purposes,  and  Deacon  Andrew 
Terrell  became  a  member  of  Company 
G,  which  nicknamed  him  "  'is  huliness." 
Company  A  came  from  Dutchess  County. 
There  was  a  little  white  church  in  the  village 
of  Brewster,  and  a  little  white  house  with  a 
meagre  porch  where  that  good  woman,  Mrs. 
Terrell,  had  stood  and  shed  several  tears  as 
the  deacon  walked  away  down  the  street, 
looking  extraordinary  in  his  regimentals. 
She  dried  her  eyes,  settled  down  to  her  sew- 
ing in  that  quiet  south  window,  and  hoped  he 
would  remember  to  keep  his  feet  dry  and  not 
lose  the  cough  drops.  That  part  of  Dutch- 
ess  County  was  a  bit  of  New  England  spilled 


30  A  Man  for  a'  That 

over.  New  England  has  been  spilling  over 
these  many  years. 

The  deacon  took  the  cough  drops  regular- 
ly; he  kept  his  gray  chin  beard  trimmed 
with  a  pair  of  domestic  scissors,  and  drill- 
ing never  persuaded  him  to  move  his  large 
frame  with  other  than  the  same  self-con- 
scious restraint ;  his  sallow  face  had  the  same 
set  lines.  There  is  something  in  the  Saxon's 
blood  that  will  not  let  him  alter  with  circum- 
stances, and  it  is  by  virtue  of  it  that  he  con- 
quers in  the  end. 

But  no  doorkeeper  in  the  house  of  God — 
the  deacon's  service  in  the  meeting-house  at 
Brewster — who  should  come  perforce  to 
dwell  in  the  tents  of  wickedness  would  pre- 
tend to  like  it.  Besides,  Company  G  had  no 
tents.  It  came  from  the  lower  wards  of  the 
great  city.  Dinkey  Cott,  that  thin-legged, 
stunted,  imp-faced,  hardened  little  Bowery 
sprout,  put  his  left  fist  in  the  deacon's  eye  the 
first  day  of  their  acquaintance,  and  swore  in 
the  pleasantest  manner  possible. 


A  Man  for  a'   That  31 

The  deacon  cuffed  him,  because  he  had 
been  a  schoolmaster  in  his  day,  and  did  not 
understand  how  he  would  be  despised  for 
knocking  Dinkey  down  in  that  amateur  fash- 
ion, and  the  lieutenant  gave  them  both  guard 
duty  for  righting  in  the  ranks. 

The  deacon  declared  "that  young  man 
Cott  hadn't  no  moral  ideas,"  and  did  his 
guard  duty  in  bitterness  and  strict  conscience 
to  the  last  minute  of  it.  Dinkey  put  his 
thumb  to  his  nose  and  offered  to  show  the 
lieutenant  how  the  thing  should  have  been 
done,  and  that  big  man  laughed,  and  both 
forgot  about  the  guard  duty. 

Dinkey  had  no  sense  whatever  of  personal 
dignity,  which  was  partly  what  the  deacon 
meant  by  "moral  ideas,"  nor  reverence  for 
anything  above  or  beneath.  He  did  not  har- 
bor any  special  anger,  either,  and  only 
enough  malice  to  point  his  finger  at  the 
elder  man,  whenever  he  saw  him,  and 
snicker  loudly  to  the  entertainment  of  Com- 
pany G. 


32  A  Man  for  a'  That 

Dinkey's  early  recollections  had  to  do 
with  the  cobblestones  of  Mulberry  Bend  and 
bootblacking  on  Pearl  Street.  Deacon  Ter- 
rell's began  with  a  lonely  farm  where  there 
were  too  many  potato  hills  to  hoe,  a  little 
schoolhouse  where  arithmetic  was  taught 
with  a  ferrule,  a  white  meeting-house  where 
the  wrath  of  God  was  preached  with  enthu- 
siasm; both  seemed  far  enough  away  from 
the  weary  tramp,  tramp,  the  picket  duty,  and 
the  camp  at  last  one  misty  night  in  thick 
woods  on  the  Stafford  hills,  looking  over  the 
Rappahannock  to  the  town  of  Fredericks- 
burg. 

What  happened  there  was  not  clear  to 
Company  G.  There  seemed  to  be  a  deal  of 
noise  and  hurrying  about,  cannon  smoke  in 
the  valley  and  cannon  smoke  on  the  terraces 
across  the  valley.  Somebody  was  building 
pontoon  bridges,  therefore  it  seemed  likely 
somebody  wanted  to  get  across.  They  were 
having  hard  luck  with  the  bridges.  That 
was  probably  the  enemy  on  the  ridge  beyond. 


A  Man  for  a'  That  33 

There  seemed  to  be  no  end  to  him,  anyway ; 
up  and  down  the  valley,  mile  beyond  mile, 
the  same  line  of  wooded  heights  and  drifting 
smoke. 

And  the  regiment  found  itself -crossing  a 
shaky  pontoon  bridge  on  a  Saturday  morn- 
ing in  the  mist  and  climbing  the  bank  into  a 
most  battered  and  tired-looking  little  town, 
which  was  smoldering  sulkily  with  burned 
buildings  and  thrilling  with  enormous  noise. 
There  they  waited  for  something  else  to  hap- 
pen. The  deacon  felt  a  lump  in  his  throat, 
stopping  his  breath. 

"Git  out  o'  me  tracks !"  snickered  Dinkey 
Cott  behind  him.  "I'll  step  on  yer." 

Dinkey  had  never  seemed  more  impish, 
unholy  and  incongruous.  They  seemed  to 
stand  there  a  long  time.  The  shells  kept 
howling  and  whizzing  around;  they  howled 
till  they  burst,  and  then  they  whizzed.  And 
now  and  then  some  one  would  cry  out  and 
fall.  It  was  bad  for  the  nerves.  The  men 
were  growling. 


34  A  Man  for  a'  That 

"Aw,  cap,  give  us  a  chance!" 

"It  ain't  my  fault,  boys.  I  got  to  wait  for 
orders,  same  as  you." 

Dinkey  poked  the  deacon's  legs  with  the 
butt  of  his  rifle. 

"Say,  it's  rotten,  ain't  it?  Say,  cully,  my 
ma  don't  like  me  full  o'  holes.  How's 
yours  ?" 

The  other  gripped  his  rifle  tight  and 
thought  of  nothing  in  particular. 

Was  it  five  hours  that  passed,  or  twenty, 
or  one?  Then  they  started,  and  the  town 
was  gone  behind  their  hurrying  feet.  Over 
a  stretch  of  broken  level,  rush  and  tramp  and 
gasping  for  breath ;  fences  and  rocks  ahead, 
clumps  of  trees  and  gorges ;  ground  growing 
rougher  and  steeper,  but  that  was  nothing. 
If  there  was  anything  in  the  way  you  went 
at  it  and  left  it  behind.  You  plunged  up  a 
hill,  and  didn't  notice  it.  You  dove  into  a 
gully,  and  it  wasn't  there.  Time  was  a  liar, 
obstacles  were  scared  and  ran  away.  But 
half-way  up  the  last  pitch  ran  a  turnpike, 


A  Man  for  a'  That  35 

with  a  stone  wall  in  front  that  spit  fire  and 
came  nearer  and  nearer.  It  seemed  creeping 
down  viciously  to  meet  you.  Up,  up,  till 
the  powder  of  the  guns  almost  burned  the 
deacon's  face,  and  the  smoke  was  so  thick  he 
could  only  see  the  red  flashes. 

And  then  suddenly  he  was  alone.  At  least 
there  was  no  one  in  sight,  for  the  smoke 
was  very  thick.  Company  G  all  dead,  or 
fallen,  or  gone  back.  There  was  a  clump  of 
brambles  to  his  left.  He  dropped  to  the 
ground,  crept  behind  it  and  lay  still.  The 
roar  went  on,  the  smoke  rolled  down  over 
him  and  sometimes  a  bullet  would  clip 
through  the  brambles,  but  after  a  time  the 
small  fire  dropped  off  little  by  little,  though 
the  cannon  still  boomed  on. 

His  legs  were  numb  and  his  heart  beat- 
ing his  sides  like  a  drum.  The  smoke  was 
blowing  away  down  the  slope.  He  lifted 
his  head  and  peered  through  the  brambles; 
there  was  the  stone  wall  not  five  rods  away, 
all  lined  along  the  top  with  grimy  faces.  A 


36  A  Man  for  a'  That 

thousand  rifles  within  as  many  yards,  want- 
ing nothing  better  than  to  dig  a  round  hole 
in  him.  He  dropped  his  head  and  closed  his 
eyes. 

His  thoughts  were  so  stunned  that  the 
slowly  lessening  cannonade  seemed  like  a 
dream,  and  he  hardly  noticed  when  it  had 
ceased,  and  he  began  to  hear  voices,  cries  of 
wounded  men  and  other  men  talking.  There 
was  a  clump  of  trees  to  the  right,  and  two 
or  three  crows  in  the  treetops  cawing  famil- 
iarly. An  hour  or  two  must  have  passed, 
for  the  sun  was  down  and  the  river  mist 
creeping  up.  He  lay  on  his  back,  staring 
blankly  at  the  pale  sky  and  shivering  a  little 
with  the  chill. 

A  group  of  men  came  down  and  stood  on 
the  rocks  above.  They  could  probably  see 
him,  but  a  man  on  his  back  with  his  toes  up 
was  nothing  particular  there.  They  talked 
with  a  soft  drawl.  "Doggonedest  clean-up 
I  ever  saw." 

"They  hadn't  no  business   to   come   up 


A  Man  for  a'  That  37 

heah,  yuh  know.  They  come  some  distance, 
now." 

"Shuah!  We  ain't  huntin'  rabbits. 
What'd  yuh  suppose?" 

Then  they  went  on. 

The  mist  came  up  white  and  cold  and 
covered  it  all  over.  He  could  not  see  the 
wall  any  longer,  though  he  could  hear  the 
voices.  He  turned  on  his  face  and  crawled 
along  below  the  brambles  and  rocks  to  where 
the  clump  of  trees  stood  with  a  deep  hollow 
below  them.  They  were  chestnut  trees. 
Some  one  was  sitting  in  the  hollow  with  his 
back  against  the  roots. 

During  the  rush  Dinkey  Cott  fairly  en- 
joyed himself.  The  sporting  blood  in  him 
sang  in  his  ears,  an  old  song  that  the  leop- 
ard knows,  it  may  be,  waiting  in  the  mot- 
tled shadow,  that  the  rider  knows  on  the  race 
course,  the  hunter  in  the  snow — the  song  of  a 
craving  that  only  excitement  satisfies.  The 
smoke  blew  in  his  face.  He  went  down  a 
hollow  and  up  the  other  side.  Then  some- 


38  A  Man  for  a'  That 

thing  hot  and  sudden  came  into  the  middle 
of  him  and  he  rolled  back  against  the  roots 
of  a  great  tree. 

"Hully  gee!  I'm  plunked!"  he  grumbled 
disgustedly. 

For  the  time  he  felt  no  pain,  but  his  blood 
ceased  to  sing  in  his  ears.  Everything 
seemed  to  settle  down  around  him,  blank  and 
dull  and  angry.  He  felt  as  if  either  the  army 
of  the  North  or  the  army  of  the  South  had 
not  treated  him  rightly.  If  they  had  given 
him  a  minute  more  he  might  have  clubbed 
something  worth  while.  He  sat  up  against 
a  tree,  wondered  what  his  chance  was  to  pull 
through,  thought  it  poor,  and  thought  he 
would  sell  it  for  a  drink. 

The  firing  dropped  off  little  by  little,  and 
the  mist  was  coming  up.  Dinkey  began  to 
see  sights.  His  face  and  hands  were  hot, 
and  things  seemed  to  be  riproaring  inside 
him  generally.  The  mist  was  full  of  flick- 
ering lights,  which  presently  seemed  to  be 
street  lamps  down  the  Bowery.  The  front 


A  Man  for  a'  That  39 

windows  of  Reilly's  saloon  were  glaring, 
and  opposite  was  Gottstein's  jewelry  store, 
where  he  had  happened  to  hit  one  Halligan  in 
the  eye  for  saying  that  Babby  Reilly  was  his 
girl  and  not  Dinkey's ;  and  he  bought  Babby 
a  9O-cent  gold  ring  of  Gottstein,  which 
proved  Halligan  to  be  a  liar.  The  cop  saw 
him  hit  Halligan,  too,  and  said  nothing,  be- 
ing his  friend.  And  Halligan  enlisted  in 
Company  G  with  the  rest  of  the  boys,  and 
was  keeled  over  in  the  dark  one  night  on 
picket  duty,  somewhere  up  country.  All  the 
gang  went  into  Company  G.  The  captain 
was  one  of  the  boys,  and  so  was  Pete  Mur- 
phy, the  big  lieutenant.  He  was  a  sort  of 
ward  sub-boss,  was  Pete. 

"Reilly,  he's  soured  on  me,  Pete.  I  dun- 
no  wot's  got  the  ol'  man." 

The  lights  seemed  to  grow  thick,  till 
everything  was  ablaze. 

"Aw,  come  off!  Dis  ain't  de  Bowery," 
he  muttered,  and  started  and  rubbed  his  eyes. 

The  mist  was  cold  and  white  all  around 
him,  ghostly  and  still,  except  that  there  was 


40  A  Man  for  a'  That 

a  low,  continual  mutter  of  voices  above,  and 
now  and  then  a  soft  moan  rose  up  from 
somewhere.  And  it  seemed  natural  enough 
that  a  ghost  should  come  creeping  out  of  the 
ghostly  mist,  even  that  it  should  creep  near 
to  him  and  peer  into  his  face,  a  ghost  with  a 
gray  chin  beard  and  haggard  eyes. 

"I'm  going  down,"  it  whispered.  "Come 
on.  Don't  make  any  noise." 

"Hully  gee!"  thought  Dinkey.  "It's  the 
Pope!" 

A  number  of  things  occurred  to  him  in 
confusion.  The  deacon  did  not  see  he  was 
hit.  He  said  to  himself : 

"I  ain't  no  call  to  spoil  'is  luck,  if  he  is 
country." 

He  blinked  a  moment,  then  nodded  and 
whispered  hoarsely :  "Go  on." 

The  deacon  crept  away  into  the  mist. 
Dinkey  leaned  back  feebly  and  closed  his 
eyes. 

"Wished  I'd  die  quick.  It's  rotten  luck. 
Wished  I  could  see  Pete." 


A  Man  for  a'  That  41 

The  deacon  crept  down  about  two  hun- 
dred yards,  then  stopped  and  waited  for  the 
young  man  Cott.  The  night  was  closing  in 
fast.  A  cry  in  the  darkness  made  him 
shiver.  He  had  never  imagined  anything 
could  be  so  desolate  and  sad.  He  thought 
he  had  better  see  what  was  the  matter  with 
Dinkey.  He  never  could  make  out  after- 
ward why  it  had  seemed  necessary  to  look 
after  Dinkey.  There  were  hundreds  of  bet- 
ter men  on  the  slopes.  Dinkey  might  have 
passed  him.  It  did  not  seem  very  sensible 
business  to  go  back  after  that  worthless  little 
limb  of  Satan.  The  deacon  never  thought 
the  adventure  a  credit  to  his  judgment. 

But  he  went  back,  guiding  himself  by  the 
darker  gloom  of  the  trees  against  the  sky, 
and  groped  his  way  down  the  hollow,  and 
heard  Dinkey  muttering  and  babbling  things 
without  sense.  It  made  the  deacon  mad  to 
have  to  do  with  irresponsible  people,  such  as 
go  to  sleep  under  the  enemy's  rifles  and  talk 
aloud  in  dreams.  He  pulled  him  roughly  by 


42  A  Man  for  a'  That 

the  boots,  and  he  fell  over,  babbling  and  mut- 
tering. Then  it  came  upon  the  deacon  that 
it  was  not  sleep,  but  fever.  He  guessed  the 
young  man  was  hit  somewhere.  They  had 
better  be  going,  anyway.  The  Johnnies 
must  have  out  a  picket  line  somewhere.  He 
slipped  his  hands  under  Dinkey  and  got  up. 
He  tried  to  climb  out  quietly,  but  fell  against 
the  bank.  Some  one  took  a  shot  at  the  noise, 
spattering  the  dirt  under  his  nose.  He 
lifted  Dinkey  higher  and  went  on.  Dinkey's 
mutterings  ceased.  He  made  no  sound  at  all 
for  a  while,  and  at  last  said  huskily : 

"Wot's  up?" 

"It's  me." 

"Hullygee!    Wot  yer  doin' ?" 

His  voice  was  weak  and  thin  now.  He 
felt  as  if  he  were  being  pulled  in  two  in  the 
middle." 

"Say,  ol'  man,  I  won't  jolly  yer.  Les' 
find  Pete.  There's  a  minie  ball  messed  up  in 
me  stomick  awful." 


A  Man  for  a'  That  43 

"  'Tain't  far,  Dinkey,"  said  the  deacon, 
gently. 

And  he  thought  of  Pete  Murphy's  red, 
fleshy  face  and  black,  oily  mustache.  It  oc- 
curred to  him  that  he  had  noticed  most  men 
in  Company  G,  if  they  fell  into  trouble, 
wanted  to  find  Pete.  He  thought  he  should 
want  to  himself,  though  he  could  not  tell 
why.  If  he  happened  to  be  killed  anywhere 
he  thought  he  should  like  Pete  Murphy  to 
tell  his  wife  about  it. 

Dinkey  lay  limp  and  heavy  in  his  arms. 
The  wet  blackness  seemed  like  something 
pressed  against  his  face.  He  could  not  real- 
ize that  he  was  walking,  though  in  the  night, 
down  the  same  slope  to  a  river  called  the 
Rappahannock  and  a  town  called  Freder- 
icksburg.  It  was  strange  business  for  him, 
Deacon  Terrell  of  Brewster,  to  be  in,  stum- 
bling down  the  battlefield  in  the  pit  darkness, 
with  a  godless  little  brat  like  Dinkey  Cott  in 
his  arms. 


44  A  Man  for  a'  That 

And  why  godless,  if  the  same  darkness 
were  around  us  all,  and  the  same  light,  while 
we  lived,  would  come  to  all  in  the  morning? 
It  was  borne  upon  the  deacon  that  no  man 
was  elected  to  the  salvation  of  the  sun  or 
condemned  to  the  night  apart  from  other 
men. 

The  deacon  never  could  recall  the  details 
of  his  night's  journey,  except  that  he  fell 
down  more  than  once,  and  ran  against  stone 
walls  in  the  dark.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
had  gone  through  an  unknown,  supernatural 
country.  Dinkey  lay  so  quiet  that  he 
thought  he  might  be  dead,  but  he  could  not 
make  up  his  mind  to  leave  him.  He  wished 
he  could  find  Pete  Murphy.  Pete  would  tell 
him  if  Dinkey  was  dead. 

He  walked  not  one  mile,  but  several,  in  the 
blind  night.  Dinkey  had  long  been  a  limp 
weight.  The  last  thing  he  said  was,  "Les' 
find  Pete,"  and  that  was  long  before. 

At  last  the  deacon  saw  a  little  glow  in  the 
darkness,  and,  coming  near,  found  a  dying 


A  Man  for  a'  That  45 

campfire  with  a  few  flames  only  flickering, 
and  beside  it  two  men  asleep.  He  might 
have  heard  the  ripple  of  the  Rappahannock, 
but,  being  so  worn  and  dull  in  his  mind,  he 
laid  Dinkey  down  by  the  fire  and  fell  heavily 
to  sleep  himself  before  he  knew  it. 

When  he  woke  Pete  Murphy  stood  near 
him  with  a  corporal  and  a  guard.  They  were 
looking  for  the  pieces  of  Company  G. 
"Dead,  ain't  he?"  said  Pete. 

The  deacon  got  up  and  brushed  his  clothes. 
The  two  men  who  were  sleeping  woke  up 
also,  and  they  all  stood  around  looking  at 
Dinkey  in  awkward  silence. 

"Who's  his  folks?" 

"Him !"  said  the  big  lieutenant.  "He  ain't 
got  any  folks.  Tell  you  what,  ol'  man,  I  see 
a  regiment  drummer  somewhere  a  minute 
ago.  He'll  do  a  roll  over  Dinkey,  for  luck, 
sure!" 

They  put  Dinkey's  coat  over  his  face  and 
buried  him  on  the  bank  of  the  Rappahan- 
nock, and  the  drummer  beat  a  roll  over  him. 


46  A  Man  for  a'  That 

Then  they  sat  down  on  the  bank  and  waited 
for  the  next  thing. 

The  troops  were  moving  back  now  across 
the  bridge  hurriedly.  Company  G  had  to 
take  its  turn.  The  deacon  felt  in  his  pockets 
and  found  the  cough  drops  and  Mrs.  Ter- 
rell's scissors.  He  took  a  cough  drop  and 
fell  to  trimming  his  beard. 


The  Green  Grasshopper 

ANY  one  would  have  called  Bobby  Bell 
a  comfortable  boy — that  is,  any  one 
who  did  not  mind  bugs;  and  I  am  sure 
I  do  not  see  why  any  one  should  mind 
bugs,  except  the  kind  that  taste  badly  in 
raspberries  and  some  other  kinds.  It  was 
among  the  things  that  are  entertaining  to 
see  Bobby  Bell  bobbing  around  among 
the  buttercups  looking  for  grasshoppers. 
Grasshoppers  are  interesting  when  you  con- 
sider that  they  have  heads  like  door  knobs  or 
green  cheeses  and  legs  with  crooks  to  them. 
"Bobbing"  means  to  go  like  Bobby  Bell — 
that  is,  to  go  up  and  down,  to  talk  to  one's 
self,  and  not  to  hear  any  one  shout,  unless  it 
is  some  one  whom  not  to  hear  is  to  get  into 
difficulties. 


48       The  Green  Grasshopper 

Across  the  Salem  Road  from  Mr.  Ather- 
ton  Bell's  house  there  were  many  level  mead- 
ows of  a  pleasant  greenness,  as  far  as  Cum- 
ming's  alder  swamp;  and  these  meadows 
were  called  the  Bow  Meadows.  If  you  take 
the  alder  swamp  and  the  Bow  Meadows  to- 
gether, they  were  like  this :  the  swamp  was 
mysterious  and  unvisited,  except  by  those 
who  went  to  fish  in  the  Muck  Hole  for  turtles 
and  eels.  Frogs  with  solemn  voices  lived 
in  the  swamp.  Herons  flew  over  it  slowly, 
and  herons  also  are  uncanny  affairs.  We  be- 
lieved that  the  people  of  the  swamp  knew 
things  it  was  not  good  to  know,  like  witch- 
craft and  the  insides  of  the  earth.  In  the 
meadows,  on  the  other  hand,  there  were  any 
number  of  cheerful  and  busy  creatures,  some 
along  the  level  of  the  buttercups,  but  most  of 
them  about  the  roots  of  the  grasses.  The 
people  in  the  swamp  were  wet,  cold,  sluggish, 
and  not  a  great  many  of  them.  The  people 
of  the  meadows  were  dry,  warm,  continually 
doing  something,  and  in  number  not  to  be 


The  Green  Grasshopper       49 

calculated  by  any  rule  in  Wentworth's  Arith- 
metic. 

So  you  see  how  different  were  the  two,  and 
how  it  comes  about  that  the  meadows  were 
nearly  the  best  places  in  the  world  to  be  in, 
both  because  of  the  society  there,  and  because 
of  the  swamp  near  at  hand  and  interesting 
to  think  about.  So,  too,  you  see  why  it  was 
that  Bobby  Bell  could  be  found  almost  any 
summer  day  "bobbing"  for  grasshoppers  in 
the  Bow  Meadows — "bobbing"  meaning  to 
go  up  and  down  like  Bobby  Bell,  to  talk  to 
one's  self  and  not  to  hear  any  one  shout ;  and 
"grasshoppers"  being  interesting  because  of 
their  heads  resembling  door  knobs  or  green 
cheeses,  because  of  the  crooks  in  their  legs, 
and  because  of  their  extraordinary  habit  of 
jumping. 

There  were  in  Hagar  at  this  time  four  la- 
dies who  lived  at  a  little  distance  from  the 
Salem  Road  and  Mr.  Atherton  Bell's  house, 
on  a  road  which  goes  over  a  hill  and  off  to  a 
district  called  Scrabble  Up  and  Down,  where 


50       The  Green   Grasshopper 

huckleberries  and  sweet  fern  mostly  grow. 
They  were  known  as  the  Turtle  Four  Wom- 
en, being  old  Mrs.  Tuttle  and  the  three 
Miss  Turtles,  of  whom  Miss  Rachel  was  the 
eldest. 

It  is  easy  to  understand  why  Miss  Rachel 
and  the  children  of  the  village  of  Hagar  did 
not  get  along  well  together,  when  you  con- 
sider how  clean  she  was,  how  she  walked  so 
as  never  to  fall  over  anything,  nor  took  any 
interest  in  squat  tag,  nor  resembled  the  chil- 
dren of  the  village  of  Hagar  in  any  respect. 
And  so  you  can  understand  how  it  was  that, 
when  she  came  down  the  hill  that  Saturday 
afternoon  and  saw  Bobby  Bell  through  the 
bars  in  the  Bow  Meadows,  she  did  not  under- 
stand his  actions,  and  disapproved  of  them, 
whatever  they  were. 

The  facts  were  these:  In  the  first  place  a 
green  grasshopper,  who  was  reckless  or  had 
not  been  brought  up  rightly,  had  gone  down 
Bobby's  back  next  the  skin,  where  he  had  no 
business  to  be ;  and  naturally  Bobby  stood  on 


The  Green  Grasshopper       51 

his  head  to  induce  him  to  come  out.  That 
seems  plain  enough,  for,  if  you  are  a  grass- 
hopper and  down  a  boy's  back,  and  the  boy 
stands  on  his  head,  you  almost  always  come 
out  to  see  what  he  is  about ;  because  it  makes 
you  curious,  if  not  ill,  to  be  down  a  boy's 
back  and  have  him  stand  on  his  head.  Any 
one  can  see  that.  And  this  is  the  reason  I 
had  to  explain  about  Miss  Rachel,  in  order  to 
show  you  why  she  did  not  understand  it,  nor 
understand  what  followed  after. 

In  the  next  place,  Bobby  knew  that  when 
you  go  where  you  have  no  business  to,  you 
are  sometimes  spanked,  but  usually  you  are 
talked  to  unpleasantly,  and  tied  up  to  some- 
thing by  the  leg,  and  said  to  be  in  disgrace. 
Usually  you  are  tied  to  the  sewing  machine, 
and  "disgrace"  means  the  corner  of  the  sew- 
ing-room between  the  machine  and  the  sofa. 
It  never  occurred  to  him  but  that  this  was  the 
right  and  natural  order  of  things.  Very 
likely  it  is.  It  seemed  so  to  Bobby. 

Now  it  is  difficult  to  spank  a  grasshopper 


52       The  Green  Grasshopper 

properly.  And  so  there  was  nothing  to  do  but 
to  tie  him  up  and  talk  to  him  unpleasantly. 
That  seems  quite  simple  and  plain.  But  the 
trouble  was  that  it  was  a  long  time  since  Miss 
Rachel  had  stood  on  her  head,  or  been 
spanked,  or  tied  up  to  anything.  This  was 
unfortunate,  of  course.  And  when  she  saw 
Bobby  stand  violently  on  his  head  and  then 
tie  a  string  to  a  grasshopper,  she  thought  it 
was  extraordinary  business,  and  probably 
bad,  and  she  came  up  to  the  bars  in  haste. 

"Bobby !"  she  said,  "you  naughty  boy,  are 
you  pulling  off  that  grasshopper's  leg?" 

Bobby  thought  this  absurd.  "Gasshop- 
pers,"  he  said  calmly,  "ithn't  any  good  'ith 
their  legth  off." 

This  was  plain  enough,  too,  because  grass- 
hoppers are  intended  to  jump,  and  cannot 
jump  without  their  legs;  consequently  it 
would  be  quite  absurd  to  pull  them  off.  Miss 
Rachel  thought  one  could  not  know  this 
without  trying  it,  and  especially  know  it  in 
such  a  calm,  matter-of-fact  way  as  Bobby 


The  Green  Grasshopper       53 

seemed  to  do,  without  trying  it  a  vast  num- 
ber of  times ;  therefore  she  became  very  much 
excited.  "You  wicked,  wicked  boy!"  she 
cried.  "I  shall  tell  your  father !"  Then  she 
went  off. 

Bobby  wondered  awhile  what  his  father 
would  say  when  Miss  Rachel  told  him  that 
grasshoppers  were  no  good  with  their  legs 
off.  When  Bobby  told  him  that  kind  of 
thing,  he  generally  chuckled  to  himself  and 
called  Bobby  "a  queer  little  chicken."  If  his 
father  called  Miss  Rachel  "a  queer  little 
chicken,"  Bobby  felt  that  it  would  seem 
strange.  But  he  had  to  look  after  the  dis- 
cipline of  the  grasshopper,  and  it  is  no  use 
trying  to  think  of  two  things  at  once.  He 
tied  the  grasshopper  to  a  mullein  stalk  and 
talked  to  him  unpleasantly,  and  the  grasshop- 
per behaved  very  badly  all  the  time;  so  that 
Bobby  was  disgusted  and  went  away  to  leave 
him  for  a  time — went  down  to  the  western 
end  of  the  meadows,  which  is  a  drowsy  place. 
And  there  it  came  about  that  he  fell  asleep, 


54       The  Green   Grasshopper 

because  his  legs  were  tired,  because  the  bees 
hummed  continually,  and  because  the  sun 
was  warm  and  the  grass  deep  around  him. 

Miss  Rachel  went  into  the  village  and  saw 
Mr.  Atherton  Bell  on  the  steps  of  the  post- 
office.  He  was  much  astonished  at  being  at- 
tacked in  such  a  disorderly  manner  by  such 
an  orderly  person  as  Miss  Rachel;  but  he 
admitted,  when  it  was  put  to  him,  that  pull- 
ing off  the  legs  of  grasshoppers  was  interfer- 
ing with  the  rights  of  grasshoppers.  Then 
Miss  Rachel  went  on  her  way,  thinking  that 
a  good  seed  had  been  sown  and  the  morality 
of  the  community  distinctly  advanced. 

The  parents  of  other  boys  stood  on  the 
post-office  steps  in  great  number,  for  it  was 
near  mail-time;  and  here  you  might  have 
seen  what  varieties  of  human  nature  there 
are.  For  some  were  taken  with  the  convic- 
tion that  the  attraction  of  the  Bow  Meadows 
to  their  children  was  all  connected  with  the 
legs  of  grasshoppers ;  some  suspected  it  only, 


The  Green   Grasshopper       55 

and  were  uneasy;  some  refused  to  imagine 
such  a  thing,  and  were  indignant.  But  they 
nearly  all  started  for  the  Bow  Meadows  with 
a  vague  idea  of  doing  something,  Mr. 
Atherton  Bell  and  Father  Durfey  leading. 
It  was  not  a  well-planned  expedition,  nor 
did  any  one  know  what  was  intended  to  be 
done.  They  halted  at  the  bars,  but  no  Bobby 
Bell  was  in  sight,  nor  did  the  Bow  Meadows 
seem  to  have  anything  to  say  about  the  mat- 
ter. The  grasshoppers  in  sight  had  all  the 
legs  that  rightly  belonged  to  them.  Mr.  Ath- 
erton Bell  got  up  on  the  wall  and  shouted  for 
Bobby.  Father  Durfey  climbed  over  the 
bars. 

It  happened  that  there  was  no  one  in  the 
Bow  Meadows  at  this  time,  except  Bobby, 
Moses  Durfey,  Chub  Leroy,  and  one  other. 
Bobby  was  asleep,  on  account  of  the  bumble- 
bees humming  in  the  sunlight ;  and  the  other 
three  were  far  up  the  farther  side,  on  account 
of  an  expedition  through  the  alder  swamp, 
supposing  it  to  be  Africa.  There  was  a  des- 


56       The  Green  Grasshopper 

perate  battle  somewhere ;  but  the  expedition 
turned  out  badly  in  the  end,  and  in  this  place 
is  neither  here  nor  there.  They  heard  Mr. 
Atherton  Bell  shouting,  but  they  did  not  care 
about  it.  It  is  more  to  the  point  that  Father 
Durfey,  walking  around  in  the  grass,  did  not 
see  the  grasshopper  who  was  tied  to  the  mul- 
lein stalk  and  as  mad  as  he  could  be.  For 
when  tied  up  in  disgrace,  one  is  always  ex- 
ceedingly mad  at  this  point;  but  repentance 
comes  afterwards.  The  grasshopper  never 
got  that  far,  for  Father  Durfey  stepped  on 
him  with  a  boot  as  big  as — big  enough  for 
Father  Durfey  to  be  comfortable  in — so  that 
the  grasshopper  was  quite  dead.  It  was  to 
him  as  if  a  precipice  were  to  fall  on  you, 
when  you  were  thinking  of  something  else. 
Then  they  all  went  away. 

Bobby  Bell  woke  up  with  a  start,  and  was 
filled  with  remorse,  remembering  his  grass- 
hopper. The  sun  had  slipped  behind  the 
shoulder  of  Windless  Mountain.  There  was 


The  Green  Grasshopper       57 

a  faint  light  across  the  Bow  Meadows,  that 
made  them  sweet  to  look  on,  but  a  little 
ghostly.  Also  it  was  dark  in  the  roots  of 
the  grasses,  and  difficult  to  find  a  green 
grasshopper  who  was  dead ;  at  least  it  would 
have  been  if  he  had  not  been  tied  to  a  mul- 
lein stalk.  Bobby  found  him  at  last  sunk 
deep  in  the  turf,  with  his  poor  legs  limp  and 
crookless,  and  his  head,  which  had  been  like 
a  green  cheese  or  a  door  knob,  no  longer 
looking  even  like  the  head  of  a  grass- 
hopper. 

Then  Bobby  Bell  sat  down  and  wept. 
Miss  Rachel,  who  had  turned  the  corner  and 
was  half  way  up  to  the  house  of  the  Tuttle 
Four  Women,  heard  him,  and  turned  back  to 
the  bars.  She  wondered  if  Mr.  Atherton 
Bell  had  not  been  too  harsh.  The  Bow 
Meadows  looked  dim  and  mournful  in  the 
twilight.  Miss  Rachel  was  feeling  a  trifle 
sad  about  herself,  too,  as  she  sometimes  did ; 
and  the  round-cheeked  cherub  weeping  in  the 
wide  shadowy  meadows  seemed  to  her  some- 


58       The  Green  Grasshopper 

thing  like  her  own  life  in  the  great  world — 
not  very  well  understood. 

"He  wath  geen!"  wailed  Bobby,  looking 
up  at  her,  but  not  allowing  his  grief  to  be 
interrupted.  "He  wath  my  geen  bug!" 

Miss  Rachel  melted  still  further,  without 
knowing  why. 

"What  was  green?" 

She  pulled  down  a  bar  and  crawled 
through.  She  hoped  Mr.  Atherton  Bell  was 
not  looking  from  a  window,  for  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  avoid  making  one's  self  amusing  to 
Mr.  Atherton  Bell.  But  Bobby  was  cer- 
tainly in  some  kind  of  trouble. 

"He'th  dead!"  wailed  Bobby  again. 
"He'th  thtepped  on !" 

Miss  Rachel  bent  over  him  stiffly.  It  was 
hard  for  one  so  austerely  ladylike  as  Miss 
Rachel  to  seem  gracious  and  compassionate, 
but  she  did  pretty  well. 

"Oh,  it's  a  grasshopper!"     Then  more  se- 
verely :  "Why  did  you  tie  him  up  ?" 

Bobby's  sobs  subsided  into  hiccoughs. 


The  Green   Grasshopper       59 

"It'th  a  disgace.  I  put  him  in  disgace, 
and  I  forgotted  him.  He  went  down  my 
back." 

"Did  you  step  on  him?" 

"N-o-o-o !"  The  hiccoughs  rose  into  sobs 
again.  "He  wath  the  geenest  gasshopper !" 

This  was  not  strictly  true ;  there  were  oth- 
ers just  as  green;  but  it  was  a  generous  trib- 
ute to  the  dead  and  a  credit  to  Bobby  Bell 
that  he  felt  that  way. 

Now  there  was  much  in  all  this  that  Miss 
Rachel  did  not  understand;  but  she  under- 
stood enough  to  feel  sharp  twinges  for  the 
wrong  that  she  had  done  Bobby  Bell,  and 
whatever  else  may  be  said  of  Miss  Rachel, 
up  to  her  light  she  was  square.  In  fact,  I 
should  say  that  she  had  an  acute-angled  con- 
science. It  was  more  than  square;  it  was 
one  of  those  consciences  that  you  are  always 
spearing  yourself  on.  She  felt  very  humble, 
and  went  with  Bobby  Bell  to  dig  a  grave  for 
the  green  grasshopper  under  the  lee  of  the 
wall.  She  dug  it  herself  with  her  parasol, 


60       The  Green  Grasshopper 

thinking  how  she  must  go  up  with  Bobby 
Bell,  what  she  must  say  to  Mr.  Atherton 
Bell,  and  how  painful  it  would  be,  because 
Mr.  Atherton  Bell  was  so  easily  amused. 

Bobby  patted  the  grave  with  his  chubby 
palm  and  cooed  contentedly.  Then  they  went 
up  the  hill  in  the  twilight  hand  in  hand. 


The  Enemies 

THE  great  fluted  pillars  in  Ramoth 
church  were  taken  away.  They 
interfered  with  the  view  and  rental  of  the 
pews  behind  them.  Albion  Dee  was  loud 
and  persuasive  for  removing  them,  and  Jay 
Dee  secret,  shy  and  resistant  against  it. 
That  was  their  habit  and  method  of  hostility. 

Then  in  due  season  Jay  Dee  rented  the  first 
seat  in  the  pew  in  front  of  Albion's  pew. 
This  was  thought  to  be  an  act  of  hostility, 
subtle,  noiseless,  far-reaching. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  Jay  Dee,  and  wore  a 
wide  flapping  coat,  had  flowing  white  hair, 
and  walked  with  a  creeping  step ;  a  bachelor, 
a  miser,  he  had  gathered  a  property  slowly 
with  persistent  fingers ;  a  furtive,  meditating, 


6  2  The  Enemies 

venerable  man,  with  a  gentle  piping  voice. 
He  lived  on  the  hill  in  the  old  house  of  the 
Dees,  built  in  the  last  century  by  one  "John 
Griswold  Dee,  who  married  Sarah  Ballister 
and  begat  two  sons,"  who  respectively  begat 
Jay  and  Albion  Dee;  and  Albion  founded 
Ironville,  three  or  four  houses  in  the  hollow 
at  the  west  of  Diggory  Gorge,  and  a  bolt  and 
nail  factory.  He  was  a  red-faced,  burly 
man,  with  short  legs  and  thick  neck,  who 
sought  determined  means  to  ends,  stood 
squarely  and  stated  opinions. 

The  beginnings  of  the  feud  lay  backward 
in  time,  little  underground  resentments  that 
trickled  and  collected.  In  Albion  they 
foamed  up  and  disappeared.  He  called  him- 
self modern  and  progressive,  and  the  bolt 
and  nail  factory  was  thought  to  be  near  bank- 
ruptcy. He  liked  to  look  men  in  the  eyes. 
If  one  could  not  see  the  minister,  one  could 
not  tell  if  he  meant  what  he  said,  or  preached 
shoddy  doctrine.  As  regards  all  view  and 
rental  behind  him,  Jay  Dee  was  as  bad  as  one 


The  Enemies  63 

of  the  old  fluted  pillars.  Albion  could  not  see 
the  minister.  He  felt  the  act  to  be  an  act 
of  hostility. 

But  he  was  progressive,  and  interested 
at  the  time  in  a  question  of  the  service,  as  re- 
spected the  choir  which  sang  from  the  rear 
gallery.  It  seemed  to  him  more  determined 
and  effective  to  hymnal  devotion  that  the 
congregation  should  rise  and  turn  around 
during  the  singing,  to  the  end  that  congre- 
gation and  choir  might  each  see  that  all 
things  were  done  decently.  He  fixed  on  the 
idea  and  found  it  written  as  an  interlinear  to 
his  gospels,  an  imperative  codicil  to  the  duty 
of  man. 

But  the  congregation  was  satiated  with 
change.  They  had  still  to  make  peace  be- 
tween their  eyes  and  the  new  slender  pillars, 
to  convince  themselves  by  contemplation  that 
the  church  was  still  not  unstable,  not  doc- 
trinally  weaker. 

So  it  came  about  that  Albion  Dee  stood  up 
sternly  and  faced  the  choir  alone,  with  the 


64  The  Enemies 

old  red,  fearless,  Protestant  face  one  knows 
of  Luther  and  Cromwell.  The  congrega- 
tion thought  him  within  his  rights  there  to 
bear  witness  to  his  conviction.  Sabbaths 
came  and  went  in  Ramoth  peacefully,  mile- 
stones of  the  passing  time,  and  all  seemed 
well. 

Pseudo-classic  architecture  is  a  pale,  in- 
human allegory  of  forgotten  meaning.  If 
buildings  like  Ramoth  church  could  in  some 
plastic  way  assimilate  their  communicants, 
what  gargoyles  would  be  about  the  cornices, 
what  wall  paintings  of  patient  saints,  mys- 
tical and  realistic.  On  one  of  the  roof  cor- 
nices of  an  old  church  in  France  is  the  carved 
stone  face  of  a  demon  with  horns  and  a 
forked  tongue,  and  around  its  eyes  a  wrin- 
kled smile  of  immense  kindness.  And  within 
the  church  is  the  mural  painting  of  a  saint, 
some  Beata  Ursula  or  Catherine,  with  up- 
turned eyes;  a  likeable  girl,  capable  of  her 
saintship,  of  turning  up  her  eyes  with  sin- 
cerity because  it  fell  to  her  to  see  a  celestial 


The  Enemies  65 

vision;  as  capable  of  a  blush  and  twittering 
laugh,  and  the  better  for  her  capabilities. 

It  is  not  stated  what  Albion  symbolized. 
He  stood  overtopping  the  bonnets  and  the 
gray  heads  of  deacons,  respected  by  the  pews, 
popular  with  the  choir,  protesting  his  con- 
viction. 

And  all  the  while  secretly,  with  haunch 
and  elbow,  he  nudged,  bumped  and  rubbed 
the  shoulders  and  silvery  head  of  Jay  Dee. 
It  is  here  claimed  that  he  stood  there  in  the 
conviction  that  it  was  his  duty  so  to  testify. 
It  is  not  denied  that  he  so  bumped  and 
squatted  against  Jay  Dee,  cautiously,  but 
with  relish  and  pleasure. 

In  the  bowed  silver  head,  behind  the  shy, 
persistent  eyes  of  Jay  Dee,  what  were  his 
thoughts,  his  purposes,  coiling  and  constrict- 
ing? None  but  the  two  were  aware  of  the 
locked  throat  grip  of  the  spirit.  In  the  dron- 
ing Sabbath  peace  the  congregation  pursued 
the  minister  through  the  subdivisions  of  his 
text,  and  dragged  the  hymn  behind  the  drag- 
ging choir. 


66  The  Enemies 

It  was  a  June  day  and  the  orioles  gurgled 
their  warm  nesting  notes  in  the  maples.  The 
boys  in  the  gallery  searched  the  surface  of 
the  quiet  assembly  for  points  of  interest ;  only 
here  and  there  nodding  heads,  wavering 
fans,  glazed,  abstracted  eyes.  They  twisted 
and  yawned.  What  to  them  were  brethren 
in  unity,  or  the  exegesis  of  a  text,  as  if  one 
were  to  count  and  classify,  prickle  by  prickle, 
to  no  purpose  the  irritating  points  of  a  chest- 
nut burr  ?  The  sermon  drowsed  to  its  close. 
The  choir  and  Albion  rose.  It  was  an  out- 
worn sight  now,  little  more  curious  than 
Monday  morning.  The  sunlight  shone 
through  the  side  windows,  slanting  down 
over  the  young,  worldly  and  impatient,  and 
one  selected  ray  fell  on  Jay  Dee's  hair  with 
spiritual  radiance,  and  on  Albion's  red  face, 
turned  choirward  for  a  testimony. 

Suddenly  Albion  gave  a  guttural  shout. 
He  turned,  he  grasped  Jay  Dee's  collar, 
dragged  him  headlong  into  the  aisle,  and 
shook  him  to  and  fro,  protesting,  "You 
stuck  me !  I'll  teach  you !" 


The  Enemies  67 

His  red  face  worked  with  passion;  Jay 
Dee's  venerable  head  bobbed,  helpless,  mild, 
piteous.  The  choir  broke  down.  The  min- 
ister rose  with  lifted  hands  and  open  mouth, 
the  gallery  in  revelry,  the  body  of  the  church 
in  exclamatory  confusion.  Albion  saw  out- 
stretched hands  approaching,  left  his  enemy, 
and  hat  in  hand  strode  down  the  aisle  with 
red,  glowering  face,  testifying,  "He  stuck 
me!" 

Jay  Dee  sat  on  the  floor,  his  meek  head 
swaying  dizzily. 

On  Monday  morning  Albion  set  out  for 
Hamilton  down  the  narrow  valley  of  the  Pil- 
grim River.  The  sudden  hills  hid  him  and 
his  purposes  from  Ramoth.  He  came  in 
time  to  sit  in  the  office  of  Simeon  Ballister, 
and  Simeon's  eyes  gleamed.  He  took  notes 
and  snuffed  the  battle  afar. 

"Ha!  Witnesses  to  pin  protruding  from 
coat  in  region  adjoining  haunch.  Hum! 
Affidavits  to  actual  puncture  of  inflamed 
character,  arguing  possibly  venom  of  pin. 


68  The  Enemies 

Ha!  Hum!  Motive  of  concurrent  animos- 
ity. A  very  respectable  case.  I  will  come 
up  and  see  your  witnesses — Ha! — in  a  day 
or  two.  Good  morning." 

Ballister  was  a  shining  light  in  the  county 
courts  in  those  days,  but  few  speak  of  him 
now.  Yet  he  wrote  a  Life  of  Byron,  a  His- 
tory of  Hamilton  County,  and  talked  a  half 
century  with  unflagging  charm.  Those  who 
remember  will  have  in  mind  his  long  white 
beard  and  inflamed  and  swollen  nose,  his 
voice  of  varied  melody.  Alien  whiskey  and 
natural  indolence  kept  his  fame  local.  His 
voice  is  silent  forever  that  once  rose  in  the 
court-rooms  like  a  fountain  shot  with  rain- 
bow fancies,  in  musical  enchantment,  in 
liquid  cadence.  "I  have  laid  open,  gentle- 
men, the  secret  of  a  human  heart,  shadowed 
and  mourning,  to  the  illumination  of  your 
justice.  You  are  the  repository  and  temple 
of  that  sacred  light.  Not  merely  as  a  plain- 
tiff, a  petitioner,  my  client  comes;  but  as  a 
worshipper,  in  reverence  of  your  function, 


The  Enemies  69 

he  approaches  the  balm  and  radiance  of  that 
steadfast  torch  and  vestal  fire  of  civilization, 
an  intelligent  jury."  Such  was  Ballister's 
inspired  manner,  such  his  habit  of  rhythm 
and  climax,  whenever  he  found  twenty-four 
eyes  fixed  on  his  swollen  nose,  the  fiery  mes- 
meric core  of  his  oratory  beaconing  juries  to 
follow  it  and  discover  truth. 

But  the  Case  of  Dee  v.  Dee  came  only  be- 
fore a  justice  of  the  peace,  in  the  Town  Hall 
of  Ramoth,  and  Justice  Kernegan  was  but  a 
stout  man  with  hairy  ears  and  round,  spec- 
tacled, benevolent  eyes.  Jay  Dee  brought 
no  advocate.  His  silvery  hair  floated  about 
his  head.  His  pale  eyes  gazed  in  mild  terror 
at  Ballister.  He  said  it  must  have  been  a 
wasp  stung  Albion. 

"A  wasp,  sir!  Your  Honor,  does  a  wasp 
carry  for  penetration,  for  puncture,  for  ma- 
lignant attack  or  justifiable  defence,  for  any 
purpose  whatsoever,  a  brass  pin  of  palpable 
human  manufacture,  drawn,  headed  and 
pointed  by  machinery,  such  as  was  inserted 


70  The  Enemies 

in  my  client's  person?  Does  the  defendant 
wish  your  Honor  to  infer  that  wasps  carry 
papers  of  brass  pins  in  their  anatomies?  I 
will  ask  the  defendant,  whose  venerable 
though  dishonored  head  bears  witness  to  his 
age,  if,  in  his  long  experience,  he  has  ever 
met  a  wasp  of  such  military  outfit  and  ar- 
senal ?  Not  a  wasp,  your  Honor,  but  a  ser- 
pent; a  serpent  in  human  form." 

Jay  Dee  had  no  answer  to  all  this.  He 
murmured — 

"Sat  on  me." 

"I  didn't  catch  your  remark,  sir." 

"Why,  you  see,"  explained  the  Justice, 
"Jay  says  Albion's  been  squatting  on  him, 
Mr.  Ballister,  every  Sunday  for  six  months. 
You  see,  Albion  gets  up  when  the  choir  sings, 
and  watches  'em  sharp  to  see  they  sing  cor- 
rect, because  his  ear  ain't  well  tuned,  but  his 
eye's  all  right." 

The  Justice's  round  eyes  blinked  pleas- 
antly. The  court-room  murmured  with  ap- 
proval, and  Albion  started  to  his  feet. 


The  Enemies  71 

"Now  don't  interrupt  the  Court,"  contin- 
ued the  Justice.  "You  see,  Mr.  Ballister, 
sometimes  Jay  says  it  was  a  wasp  and  some- 
times he  says  it  was  because  Albion  squatted 
on  him,  don't  you  see,  bumped  him  on  the  ear 
with  his  elbow.  You  see,  Jay  sets  just  in 
front  of  Albion.  Now,  you  see — " 

"Then,  does  it  not  appear  to  your  Honor 
that  a  witness  who  voluntarily  offers  to 
swear  to  two  contradictory  explanations; 
first,  that  the  operation  in  question,  the  punc- 
ture or  insertion,  was  performed  by  a  wasp ; 
secondly,  that,  though  he  did  it  himself  with 
a  pin  and  in  his  haste  allowed  that  pin  in 
damnatory  evidence  to  remain,  it  was  be- 
cause, he  alleges,  of  my  client's  posture  tow- 
ard, and  intermittent  contact  with  him — does 
it  not  seem  to  your  Honor  that  such  a  witness 
is  to  be  discredited  in  any  statement  he  may 
make?" 

"Well,  really,  Mr.  Ballister,  but  you  see 
Albion  oughtn't  to  've  squatted  on  him." 

"I  find  myself  in  a  singular  position.     It 


72  The  Enemies 

has  not  been  usual  in  my  experience  to  find 
the  Court  a  pleader  in  opposition.  I  came 
hoping  to  inform  and  persuade  your  Honor 
regarding  this  case.  I  find  myself  in  the  po- 
sition of  being  informed  and  persuaded.  I 
hope  the  Court  sees  no  discourtesy  in  the  re- 
mark, but  if  the  Court  is  prepared  already  to 
discuss  the  case  there  seems  little  for  me  to 
do." 

The  Justice  looked  alarmed.  He  felt  his 
popularity  trembling.  It  would  not  do  to 
balk  the  public  interest  in  Ballister's  oratory. 
Doubtless  Jay  Dee  had  stuck  a  pin  into  Al- 
bion, but  maybe  Albion  had  mussed  Jay's 
hair  and  jabbed  his  ear,  had  dragged  and 
shaken  him  in  the  aisle  at  least.  The  rights 
of  it  did  not  seem  difficult.  They  ought  not 
to  have  acted  that  way.  No  man  has  the 
right  to  sit  on  another  man's  head  from  the 
standpoint  or  advantage  of  his  own  religious 
conviction.  Nor  has  a  man  a  right  to  use 
another  man  for  a  pincushion  whenever,  as 
it  may  be,  he  finds  something  about  him  in  a 


The  Enemies  73 

way  that's  like  a  pincushion.  But  Ballister's 
oratory  was  critical  and  important. 

"Why,"  said  Kernegan  hastily,  "this 
Court  is  in  a  mighty  uncertain  state  of  mind. 
It  couldn't  make  it  up  without  hearing  what 
you  were  going  to  say." 

Again  the  Court  murmured  with  approval. 
Ballister  rose. 

"This  case  presents  singular  features.  The 
secret  and  sunless  caverns,  where  human  mo- 
tives lie  concealed,  it  is  the  function  of  justice 
to  lay  open  to  vivifying  light.  Not  only  evil 
or  good  intentions  are  moving  forces  of  ap- 
parent action,  but  mistakes  and  misjudg- 
ments.  I  conclude  that  your  Honor  puts 
down  the  defendant's  fanciful  and  predatory 
wasp  to  the  defendant's  neglect  of  legal  ad- 
vice, to  his  feeble  and  guilty  inepitude.  I 
am  willing  to  leave  it  there.  I  assume  that 
he  confesses  the  assault  on  my  client's  per- 
son with  a  pin,  an  insidious  and  lawless  pin, 
pointed  with  cruelty  and  propelled  with 
spite;  I  infer  and  understand  that  he  offers 


74  The  Enemies 

in  defence  a  certain  alleged  provocation,  cer- 
tain insertions  of  my  client's  elbow  into  the 
defendant's  ear,  certain  trespasses  and  dis- 
turbance of  the  defendant's  hair,  finally,  cer- 
tain approximations  and  contacts  between 
my  client's  adjacent  quarter  and  the  defend- 
ant's shoulders,  denominated  by  him — and 
here  we  demur  or  object — as  an  act  of  sitting 
or  squatting,  whereby  the  defendant  alleges 
himself  to  have  been  touched,  grieved  and 
annoyed.  In  the  defendant's  parsimonious 
neglect  of  counsel  we  generously  supply  him 
with  a  fair  statement  of  his  case.  I  return 
to  my  client. 

"Your  Honor,  what  nobler  quality  is  there 
in  our  defective  nature  than  that  which  en- 
ables the  earnest  man,  whether  as  a  citizen 
or  in  divine  worship,  whether  in  civil  matters 
or  religious,  to  abide  steadfastly  by  his  con- 
science and  convictions.  He  stands  a  pillar 
of  principle,  a  rock  in  the  midst  of  uncertain 
waters.  The  feeble  look  up  to  him  and  are 
encouraged,  the  false  and  shifty  are  ashamed. 


The  Enemies  75 

His  eye  is  fixed  on  the  future.  Posterity 
shall  judge  him.  Small  matters  of  his  en- 
vironment escape  his  notice.  His  mind  is  on 
higher  things. 

"I  am  not  prepared  to  forecast  the  judg- 
ment of  posterity  on  that  point  of  ritualistic 
devotion  to  which  my  client  is  so  devoted  an 
advocate.  Neither  am  I  anxious  or  troubled 
to  seek  opinion  whether  my  client  inserted 
his  elbow  into  the  defendant's  ear,  or  the  de- 
fendant, maliciously  or  inadvertently,  by 
some  rotatory  motion,  applied,  bumped  or 
banged  his  ear  against  my  client's  elbow; 
whether  the  defendant  rubbed  or  impinged 
with  his  head  on  the  appendant  coat  tails  of 
my  client,  or  the  reverse.  I  am  uninterested 
in  the  alternative,  indifferent  to  the  whole 
matter.  It  seems  to  me  an  academic  ques- 
tion. If  the  defendant  so  acted,  it  is  not  the 
action  of  which  we  complain.  If  my  client 
once,  twice,  or  even  at  sundry  times,  in  his 
stern  absorption,  did  not  observe  what  may 
in  casual  accident  have  taken  place  behind, 


j6  The  Enemies 

what  then  ?  I  ask  your  Honor,  what  then  ? 
Did  the  defendant  by  a  slight  removal,  by 
suggestion,  by  courteous  remonstrance,  at- 
tempt to  obviate  the  difficulty?  No!  Did 
he  remember  those  considerate  virtues  en- 
joined in  Scripture,  or  the  sacred  place  and 
ceremony  in  which  he  shared  ?  No !  Like  a 
serpent,  he  coiled  and  waited.  He  hid  his  hy- 
pocrisy in  white  hairs,  his  venomous  purpose 
in  attitudes  of  reverence.  He  darkened  his 
morbid  malice  till  it  festered,  corroded,  cor- 
rupted. He  brooded  over  his  fancied  injury 
and  developed  his  base  design.  Resolved 
and  prepared,  he  watched  his  opportunity. 
With  brazen  and  gangrened  pin  of  malicious 
point  and  incensed  propulsion,  with  averted 
eye  and  perfidious  hand,  with  sudden,  secret, 
backward  thrust,  with  all  the  force  of  ac- 
cumulated, diseased,  despicable  spite,  he 
darted  like  a  serpent's  fang  this  misapplied 
instrument  into  the  unprotected  posterior,  a 
sensitive  portion,  most  outlying  and  exposed, 
of  my  client's  person. 


The  Enemies  77 

"This  action,  your  Honor,  I  conceive  to 
be  in  intent  and  performance  a  felonious,  in- 
jurious and  sufficient  assault.  For  this 
injury,  for  pain,  indignity  and  insult,  for  the 
vindication  of  justice  in  state  and  com- 
munity, for  the  protection  of  the  citizen  from 
bold  or  treacherous  attack,  anterior  or  pos- 
terior, vanguard  or  rear,  I  ask  your  Honor 
that  damages  be  given  my  client  adequate  to 
that  injury,  adequate  to  that  vindication  and 
protection." 

So  much  and  more  Ballister  spoke.  Mr. 
Kernegan  took  off  his  spectacles  and  rubbed 
his  forehead. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  guess  Mr.  Ballister'll 
charge  Albion  about  forty  dollars — " 

Ballister  started  up. 

"Don't  interrupt  the  Court.  It's  worth  all 
that.  Albion  and  Jay  haven't  been  acting 
right  and  they  ought  to  pay  for  it  between 
'em.  The  Court  decides  Jay  Dee  shall  pay 
twenty  dollars  damages  and  costs." 

The  court-room  murmured  with  approval. 
***** 


78  The  Enemies 

The  twilight  was  gathering  as  Albion 
drove  across  the  old  covered  bridge  and 
turned  into  the  road  that  leads  to  Ironville 
through  a  gloomy  gorge  of  hemlock  trees 
and  low-browed  rocks.  The  road  keeps  to 
the  left  above  Diggory  Brook,  which  mur- 
murs in  recesses  below  and  waves  little 
ghostly  white  garments  over  its  waterfalls. 
Such  is  this  murmur  and  the  soft  noise  of  the 
wind  in  the  hemlocks,  that  the  gorge  is  ever 
filled  with  a  sound  of  low  complaint.  Twi- 
light in  the  open  sky  is  night  below  the  hem- 
locks. At  either  end  of  the  avenue  you  note 
where  the  light  still  glows  fadingly.  There 
lie  the  hopes  and  possibilities  of  a  worldly 
day,  skies,  fields  and  market-places,  to-days, 
to-morrows  and  yesterdays,  and  men  walk- 
ing about  with  confidence  in  their  footing. 
But  here  the  hemlocks  stand  beside  in  black 
order  of  pillars  and  whisper  together  dis- 
trustfully. The  man  who  passes  you  is  a 
nameless  shadow  with  an  intrusive,  heavy 
footfall.  Low  voices  float  up  from  the  pit 


The  Enemies  79 

of  the  gorge,  intimations,  regrets,  discour- 
agements, temptations. 

A  house  and  mill  once  stood  at  the  lower 
end  of  it,  and  there,  a  century  ago,  was  a  wild 
crime  done  on  a  certain  night ;  the  dead  bod- 
ies of  the  miller  and  his  children  lay  on  the 
floor,  except  one  child,  who  hid  and  crept  out 
in  the  grass;  little  trickles  of  blood  stole 
along  the  cracks ;  house  and  mill  blazed  and 
fell  down  into  darkness;  a  maniac  cast  his 
dripping  axe  into  Diggory  Brook  and  fled 
away  yelling  among  the  hills.  Not  that  this 
had  made  the  gorge  any  darker,  or  that  its 
whispers  are  supposed  to  relate  to  any  such 
memories.  The  brook  comes  from  swamps 
and  meadows  like  other  brooks,  and  runs  into 
the  Pilgrim  River.  It  is  shallow  and  rapid, 
though  several  have  contrived  to  fall  and  be 
drowned  in  it.  One  wonders  how  it  could 
have  happened.  The  old  highway  leading 
from  Ramoth  village  to  the  valley  has  been 
grass-grown  for  generations,  but  that  is  be- 
cause the  other  road  is  more  direct  to  the 


80  The  Enemies 

Valley  settlement  and  the  station.  The 
water  of  the  brook  is  clear  and  pleasant 
enough.  Much  trillium,  with  its  leaves  like 
dark  red  splashes,  a  plant  of  sullen  color  and 
solitary  station,  used  to  grow  there,  but  does 
so  no  more.  Slender  birches  now  creep 
down  almost  to  the  mouth  of  the  gorge,  and 
stand  with  white  stems  and  shrinking,  trem- 
bling leaves.  But  birches  grow  nearly  every- 
where. 

Albion  drove  steadily  up  the  darkened 
road,  till  his  horse  dropped  into  a  walk  be- 
hind an  indistinguishable  object  that  crept 
in  front  with  creaking  wheels.  He  shouted 
for  passage  and  turned  into  the  ditch  on  the 
side  away  from  the  gorge.  The  shadowy 
vehicle  drifted  slantingly  aside.  Albion 
started  his  horse;  the  front  wheels  of  the 
two  clicked,  grated,  slid  inside  each  other  and 
locked.  Albion  spoke  impatiently.  He  was 
ever  for  quick  decisions.  He  backed  his 
horse,  and  the  lock  became  hopeless.  The 
unknown  made  no  comment,  no  noise.  The 


The  Enemies  81 

hemlocks  whispered,  the  brook  muttered  in 
its  pit  and  shook  the  little  white  garments  of 
its  waterfalls. 

"Crank  your  wheel  a  trifle  now." 

The  other  did  not  move. 

"Who  are  you?    Can't  ye  speak?" 

No  answer. 

Albion  leaned  over  his  wheel,  felt  the  seat 
rail  of  the  other  vehicle,  and  brought  his  face 
close  to  something  white — white  hair  about 
the  approximate  outline  of  a  face.  By  the 
hair  crossed  by  the  falling  hat  brim,  by  the 
shoulders  seen  vaguely  to  be  bent  forward, 
by  the  loose  creaking  wheels  of  the  buck- 
board  he  knew  Jay  Dee.  The  two  stood  close 
and  breathless,  face  to  face,  but  featureless 
and  apart  by  the  unmeasured  distance  of  ob- 
scurity. 

Albion  felt  a  sudden  uneasy  thrill  and 
drew  back.  He  dreaded  to  hear  Jay  Dee's 
spiritless  complaining  voice,  too  much  in  the 
nature  of  that  dusky,  uncanny  place.  He  felt 
as  if  something  cold,  damp  and  impalpable 


82  The  Enemies 

were  drawing  closer  to  him,  whispering,  call- 
ing his  attention  to  the  gorge,  how  black 
and  steep!  to  the  presence  of  Jay  Dee,  how 
near!  to  the  close  secret  hemlocks  covering 
the  sky.  This  was  not  agreeable  to  a  posi- 
tive man,  a  man  without  fancies.  Jay  Dee 
sighed  at  last,  softly,  and  spoke,  piping,  thin, 
half-moaning : 

"You're  following  me.     Let  me  alone!" 

"I'm  not  following  you,"  said  Albion 
hoarsely.  "Crank  your  wheel !" 

"You're  following  me.  I'm  an  old  man. 
You're  only  fifty." 

Albion  breathed  hard  in  the  darkness.  He 
did  not  understand  either  Jay  Dee  or  himself. 
After  a  silence  Jay  Dee  went  on : 

"I  haven't  any  kin  but  you,  Albion,  except 
Stephen  Ballister  and  the  Winslows. 
They're  only  fourth  cousins." 

Albion  growled. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Without  my  making  a  will  it'd  come  to 
you,  wouldn't  it?  Seems  to  me  as  if  you 


The  Enemies  83 

oughtn't  to  pester  me,  being  my  nearest  kin, 
and  me,  I  ain't  made  any  will.  I  got  a  little 
property,  though  it  ain't  much.  'Twould 
clear  your  mortgage  and  make  you  easy." 

" What  d'you  mean?" 

"Twenty  dollars  and  costs,"  moaned  Jay 
Dee.  "And  me  an  old  man,  getting  ready 
for  his  latter  end  soon.  I  ain't  made  my 
will,  either.  I  ought  to've  done  it." 

What  could  Jay  Dee  mean?  If  he  made 
no  will  his  property  would  come  to  Albion. 
No  will  made  yet.  A  hinted  intention  to 
make  one  in  favor  of  Stephen  Ballister  or  the 
Winslows.  The  foundry  was  mortgaged. — 
Jay  was  worth  sixty  thousand.  Diggory 
Gorge  was  a  dark  whispering  place  of 
ancient  crime,  of  more  than  one  unexplained 
accident.  The  hemlocks  whispered,  the 
brook  gurgled  and  glimmered.  Such  dark- 
ness might  well  cloak  and  cover  the  sunny 
instincts  that  look  upwards,  scruples  of  the 
social  daylight.  Would  Jay  Dee  trap  him  to 
his  ruin?  Jay  Dee  would  not  expect  to  en- 


84  The  Enemies 

joy  it  if  he  were  dead  himself.  But  acci- 
dents befall,  and  men  not  seldom  meet  sud- 
den deaths,  and  an  open,  free-speaking 
neighbor  is  not  suspected.  Success  lies  be- 
fore him  in  the  broad  road. 

It  rushed  through  Albion's  mind,  a  flood, 
sudden,  stupefying — thoughts  that  he  could 
not  master,  push  back,  or  stamp  down. 

He  started  and  roused  himself;  his  hands 
were  cold  and  shaking.  He  sprang  from  his 
buggy  and  cried  angrily : 

"What  d'ye  mean  by  all  that  ?  Tempt  me, 
a  God-fearing  man?  Throw  ye  off'n  the 
gorge !  Break  your  old  neck !  I've  good  no- 
tion to  it,  if  I  wasn't  a  God-fearing  man. 
Crank  your  wheel  there !" 

He  jerked  his  buggy  free,  sprang  in,  and 
lashed  his  horse.  The  horse  leaped,  the 
wheels  locked  again.  Jay  Dee's  buckboard, 
thrust  slanting  aside,  went  over  the  edge,  slid 
and  stopped  with  a  thud,  caught  by  the  hem- 
lock trunks.  A  ghostly  glimmer  of  white 
hair  one  instant,  and  Jay  Dee  was  gone  down 


The  Enemies  85 

the  black  pit  of  the  gorge.  A  wheezing  moan, 
and  nothing  more  was  heard  in  the  confu- 
sion. Then  only  the  complaining  murmur 
of  the  brook,  the  hemlocks  at  their  secrets. 

''Jav '  Jay '"  called  Albion,  and  then  leaped 
out,  ran  and  whispered,  "Ja7 !" 

Only  the  mutter  of  the  brook  and  the  shim- 
mer of  foam  could  be  made  out  as  he  stared 
and  listened,  leaning  over,  clinging  to  a  tree, 
feeling  about  for  the  buckboard.  He  fum- 
bled, lit  a  match  and  lifted  it.  The  seat 
was  empty,  the  left  wheels  still  in  the 
road.  The  two  horses,  with  twisted  necks 
and  glimmering  eyes,  were  looking  back 
quietly  at  him,  Albion  Dee,  a  man  of  ideas 
and  determination,  now  muttering  things  un- 
intelligible in  the  same  tone  with  the  mutter- 
ing water,  with  wet  forehead  and  nerveless 
hands,  heir  of  Jay  Dee's  thousands,  staring 
down  the  gorge  of  Diggory  Brook,  the  scene 
of  old  crime.  He  gripped  with  difficulty  as 
he  let  himself  slide  past  the  first  row  of  trees, 
and  felt  for  some  footing  below.  He  noticed 


86  The  Enemies 

dully  that  it  was  a  steep  slope,  not  a  precipice 
at  that  point.  He  lit  more  matches  as  he 
crept  down,  and  peered  around  to  find  some- 
thing crushed  and  huddled  against  some  tree, 
a  lifeless,  fearful  thing.  The  slope  grew 
more  moderate.  There  were  thick  ferns. 
And  closely  above  the  brook,  that  gurgled 
and  laughed  quietly,  now  near  at  hand,  sat 
Jay  Dee.  He  looked  up  and  blinked  dizzily, 
whispered  and  piped : 

"Twenty  dollars  and  costs !  You  oughtn't 
to  pester  me.  I  ain't  made  my  will." 

Albion  sat  down.  They  sat  close  together 
in  the  darkness  some  moments  and  were  si- 
lent. 

"You  ain't  hurt?"  Albion  asked  at  last. 
"We'll  get  out." 

They  went  up  the  steep,  groping  and  stum- 
bling. Albion  half  lifted  his  enemy  into  the 
buckboard,  and  led  the  horse,  his  own  follow- 
ing. They  were  out  into  the  now  almost 
faded  daylight.  Jay  sat  holding  his  lines, 
bowed  over,  meek  and  venerable.  The  front 


The  Enemies  87 

of  his  coat  was  torn.  Albion  came  to  his 
wheel. 

"Will  twenty  dollars  make  peace  between 
you  and  me,  Jay  Dee  ?" 

"The  costs  was  ten,"  piping  sadly. 

"Thirty  dollars,  Jay  Dee?    Here  it  is." 

He  jumped  into  his  buggy  and  drove  rap- 
idly. In  sight  of  the  foundry  he  drew  a 
huge  breath. 

"I  been  a  sinner  and  a  fool,"  and  slapped 
his  knee.  "It's  sixty  thousand  dollars,  may- 
be seventy.  A  self-righteous  sinner  and  a 
cocksure  fool.  God  forgive  me !" 

Between  eight  and  nine  Jay  Dee  sat  down 
before  his  meagre  fire  and  rusty  stove,  drank 
his  weak  tea  and  toasted  his  bread.  The  win- 
dows clicked  with  the  night  wind.  The  fur- 
niture was  old,  worn,  unstable,  except  the 
large  desk  behind  him  full  of  pigeonholes  and 
drawers.  Now  and  then  he  turned  and  wrote 
on  scraps  of  paper.  Tea  finished,  he  collected 
the  scraps  and  copied : 


The  Enemies 


MR.  STEPHEN  BALLISTER:  I  feel,  as  growing  some- 
what old,  I  ought  to  make  my  will,  and  sometime, 
leaving  this  world  for  a  better,  would  ask  you  to 
make  my  will  for  me,  for  which  reasonable  charge, 
putting  this  so  it  cannot  be  broken  by  lawyers,  who 
will  talk  too  much  and  are  vain  of  themselves,  that 
is,  leaving  all  my  property  of  all  kinds  to  my  rela- 
tive, James  Winslow  of  Wimberton,  and  not  any- 
thing to  Albion  Dee;  for  he  has  not  much  sense  but 
is  hasty;  for  to  look  after  the  choir  is  not  his  busi- 
ness, and  to  sit  on  an  old  man  and  throw  him  from 
his  own  wagon  and  pay  him  thirty  dollars  is  hasty, 
for  it  is  not  good  sense,  and  not  anything  to  Stephen 
Ballister,  for  he  must  be  rich  with  talking  so  much 
in  courts  of  this  world.  Put  this  all  in  my  will,  but 
if  unable  or  unwilling  on  account  of  remorse  for 
speaking  so  in  the  court,  please  to  inform  that  I  may 
get  another  lawyer.  Yours, 

JAY  DEE. 

He  sealed  and  addressed  the  letter,  put  it 
in  his  pocket,  and  noticed  the  ruinous  rent 
in  his  coat.  He  sighed,  murmured  over  it 
complainingly,  and  turned  up  the  lapel  of  the 
coat.  Pins  in  great  variety  and  number  were 
there  in  careful  order,  some  new,  some  small, 
some  long  and  old  and  yellow.  He  selected 


The  Enemies  89 

four  and  pinned  the  rent  together,  sighing. 
Then  he  took  three  folded  bills  from  his  vest 
pocket,  unfolded,  counted  and  put  them  back, 
felt  of  the  letter  in  his  coat  gently,  mur- 
mured, "I  had  the  best  of  Albion  there;  I 
had  him  there,"  took  his  candle  and  went  up 
peacefully  and  venerably  to  bed. 


A  Night's  Lodging 

FATHER  WILISTON  was  a  retired 
clergyman,  so  distinguished  from  his 
son  Timothy,  whose  house  stood  on  the 
ridge  north  of  the  old  village  of  Win- 
throp,  and  whose  daily  path  lay  between  his 
house  and  the  new  growing  settlement 
around  the  valley  station.  It  occurred  at 
odd  times  to  Father  Wiliston  that  Timothy's 
path  was  somewhat  undeviating.  The 
clergyman  had  walked  widely  since  Win- 
throp  was  first  left  behind  fifty-five  years 
back,  at  a  time  when  the  town  was  smaller 
and  cows  cropped  the  Green  but  never  a  lawn 
mower. 

After  college  and  seminary  had  come  the 
frontier,  which  lay  this  side  of  the  Great 
Lakes  until  Clinton  stretched  his  ribbon  of 
waterway  to  the  sea ;  then  a  mission  in  Wis- 


A  Night's  Lodging  91 

consin,  intended  to  modify  the  restless  pro- 
fanity of  lumbermen  who  broke  legs  under 
logs  and  drank  disastrous  whiskey.  A  city 
and  twenty  mills  were  on  the  spot  now, 
though  the  same  muddy  river  ran  into  the 
same  blue  lake.  Some  skidders  and  saw- 
tenders  of  old  days  were  come  to  live  in  stone 
mansions  and  drive  in  nickel-plated  car- 
riages; some  were  dead;  some  drifting  like 
the  refuse  on  the  lake  front;  some  skidding 
and  saw-tending  still.  Distinction  of  social 
position  was  an  idea  that  Father  Wiliston 
never  was  able  to  grasp. 

In  the  memories  of  that  raw  city  on  the 
lake  he  had  his  place  among  its  choicest  in- 
congruities; and  when  his  threescore  and 
ten  years  were  full,  the  practical  tenderness 
of  his  nickel-plated  and  mansioned  parish- 
ioners packed  him  one  day  into  an  uphol- 
stered sleeping  car,  drew  an  astonishing 
check  to  his  credit,  and  mailed  it  for  safety 
to  Timothy  Wiliston  of  Winthrop.  So  Fa- 
ther Wiliston  returned  to  Winthrop,  where 


92  A  Night's  Lodging 

Timothy,  his  son,  had  been  sent  to  take  root 
thirty  years  before. 

One  advantage  of  single-mindedness  is 
that  life  keeps  on  presenting  us  with  sur- 
prises. Father  Wiliston  occupied  his  own 
Arcadia,  and  Wisconsin  or  Winthrop  mere- 
ly sent  in  to  him  a  succession  of  persons 
and  events  of  curious  interest.  "The  par- 
son"— Wisconsin  so  spoke  of  him,  leaning 
sociably  over  its  bar,  or  pausing  among 
scented  slabs  and  sawdust — "the  parson  re- 
sembles an  egg  as  respects  that  it's  inno- 
cent and  some  lopsided,  but  when  you  think 
he  must  be  getting  addled,  he  ain't.  He 
says  to  me,  'You'll  make  the  Lord  a  deal  of 
trouble,  bless  my  soul!'  he  says.  'I  don't 
see  how  the  Lord's  going  to  arrange  for  you. 
But' — thinking  he  might  hurt  my  feelings — 
T  guess  he'll  undertake  it  by  and  by.'  Then 
he  goes  wabbling  down-street,  picks  up  Mike 
Riley,  who's  considerable  drunk,  and  takes 
him  to  see  his  chickens.  And  Mike  gets  so 
interested  in  those  chickens  you'd  like  to  die. 


A  Night's  Lodging  93 

Then  parson  goes  off,  absent-minded  and 
forgets  him,  and  Mike  sleeps  the  balmy  night 
in  the  barnyard,  and  steals  a  chicken  in  the 
morning,  and  parson  says,  'Bless  my  soul! 
How  singular!'  Well,"  concluded  Wiscon- 
sin, "he's  getting  pretty  young  for  his  years. 
I  hear  they're  going  to  send  him  East  before 
he  learns  bad  habits." 

The  steadiness  and  repetition  of  Timo- 
thy's worldly  career  and  semi-daily  walk  to 
and  from  his  business  therefore  seemed  to 
Father  Wiliston  phenomenal,  a  problem  not 
to  be  solved  by  algebra,  for  if  a  equalled  Tim- 
othy, b  his  house,  c  his  business,  a  +  b  -f-  c 
was  still  not  a  far-reaching  formula,  and 
there  seemed  no  advantage  in  squaring  it. 
Geometrically  it  was  evident  that  by  walk- 
ing back  and  forth  over  the  same  straight 
line  you  never  so  much  as  obtained  an  angle. 
Now,  by  arithmetic,  "Four  times  thirty, 
multiplied  by — leaving  out  Sundays — Bless 
me!  How  singular!  Thirty-seven  thou- 
sand five  hundred  and  sixty  times!" 


94  A  Night's  Lodging 

He  wondered  if  it  had  ever  occurred  to 
Timothy  to  walk  it  backward,  or,  perhaps, 
to  hop,  partly  on  one  foot,  and  then,  of 
course,  partly  on  the  other.  Sixty  years  ago 
there  was  a  method  of  progress  known  as 
"hop-skip-and-jump,"  which  had  variety 
and  interest.  Drawn  in  the  train  of  this 
memory  came  other  memories  floating  down 
the  afternoon's  slant  sunbeams,  rising  from 
every  meadow  and  clump  of  woods;  from 
the  elder  swamp  where  the  brown  rabbits 
used  to  run  zigzag,  possibly  still  ran  in  the 
same  interesting  way;  from  the  great  sand 
bank  beyond  the  Indian  graves.  The  old 
Wiliston  house,  with  roof  that  sloped  like  a 
well-sweep,  lay  yonder,  a  mile  or  two.  He 
seemed  to  remember  some  one  said  it  was 
empty,  but  he  could  not  associate  it  with 
emptiness.  The  bough  apples  there,  if  he 
remembered  rightly,  were  an  efficacious  balm 
for  regret. 

He  sighed  and  took  up  his  book.  It  was 
another  cure  for  regret,  a  Scott  novel,  "The 


A  Night's  Lodging  95 

Pirate."  It  had  points  of  superiority  over 
Cruden's  Concordance.  The  surf  began  to 
beat  on  the  Shetland  Islands,  and  trouble 
was  imminent  between  Cleveland  and  Mor- 
daunt  Mertoun. 

Timothy  and  his  wife  drove  away  visiting 
that  afternoon,  not  to  return  till  late  at 
night,  and  Bettina,  the  Scandinavian,  laid 
Father  Wiliston's  supper  by  the  open  win- 
dow, where  he  could  look  out  across  the 
porch  and  see  the  chickens  clucking  in  the 
road. 

"You  mus'  eat,  fater,"  she  commanded. 

"Yes,  yes,  Bettina.  Thank  you,  my  dear. 
Quite  right." 

He  came  with  his  book  and  sat  down  at 
the  table,  but  Bettina  was  experienced  and 
not  satisfied. 

"You  mus'  eat  firs'." 

He  sighed  and  laid  down  "The  Pirate." 
Bettina  captured  and  carried  it  to  the  other 
end  of  the  room,  lit  the  lamp  though  it  was 
still  light,  and  departed  after  the  mail.  It 


96  A  Night's  Lodging 

was  a  rare  opportunity  for  her  to  linger  in 
the  company  of  one  of  her  Scandinavian  ad- 
mirers. "Fater"  would  not  know  the  dif- 
ference between  seven  and  nine  or  ten. 

He  leaned  in  the  window  and  watched  her 
safely  out  of  sight,  then  went  across  the 
room,  recaptured  "The  Pirate,"  and  chuckled 
in  the  tickling  pleasure  of  a  forbidden  thing, 
"asked  the  blessing,"  drank  his  tea  shrewdly, 
knowing  it  would  deteriorate,  and  settled  to 
his  book.  The  brown  soft  dusk  settled, 
shade  by  shade;  moths  fluttered  around  the 
lamp;  sleepy  birds  twittered  in  the  maples. 
But  the  beat  of  the  surf  on  the  Shetland  Is- 
lands was  closer  than  these.  Cleveland  and 
Mordaunt  Mertoun  were  busy,  and  Norna 
— "really,  Norna  was  a  remarkable  wom- 
an"— and  an  hour  slipped  past. 

Some  one  hemmed !  close  by  and  scraped 
his  feet.  It  was  a  large  man  who  stood 
there,  dusty  and  ragged,  one  boot  on  the 
porch,  with  a  red  handkerchief  knotted 
under  his  thick  tangled  beard  and  jovial  red 


A  Night's  Lodging  97 

face.  He  had  solid  limbs  and  shoulders, 
and  a  stomach  of  sloth  and  heavy  feeding. 

The  stranger  did  not  resemble  the  comely 
pirate,  Cleveland;  his  linen  was  not  "seven- 
teen hun'red;"  it  seemed  doubtful  if  there 
were  any  linen.  And  yet,  in  a  way  there 
was  something  not  inappropriate  about  him, 
a  certain  chaotic  ease ;  not  piratical,  perhaps, 
although  he  looked  like  an  adventurous  per- 
son. Father  Wiliston  took  time  to  pass 
from  one  conception  of  things  to  another. 
He  gazed  mildly  through  his  glasses. 

"I  ain't  had  no  supper,"  began  the 
stranger  in  a  deep  moaning  bass;  and  Fa- 
ther Wiliston  started. 

"Bless  my  soul!  Neither  have  I."  He 
shook  out  his  napkin.  "Bettina,  you  see  " — 

"Looks  like  there's  enough  for  two," 
moaned  and  grumbled  the  other.  He 
mounted  the  porch  and  approached  the  win- 
dow, so  that  the  lamplight  glimmered 
against  his  big,  red,  oily  face. 

"Why,  so  there  is!"  cried  Father  Wilis- 


98  A  Night's  Lodging 

ton,  looking  about  the  table  in  surprise.  "I 
never  could  eat  all  that.  Come  in."  And 
the  stranger  rolled  muttering  and  wheezing 
around  through  the  door. 

"Will  you  not  bring  a  chair?  And  you 
might  use  the  bread  knife.  These  are  fried 
eggs.  And  a  little  cold  chicken?  Really, 
I'm  very  glad  you  dropped  in,  Mr." — 

"Del  Toboso."  By  this  time  the  stran- 
ger's mouth  was  full  and  his  enunciation 
confused. 

"Why"— Father  Wiliston  helped  himself 
to  an  egg — "I  don't  think  I  caught  the 
name." 

"Del  Toboso.  Boozy's  what  they  calls 
me  in  the  push." 

"I'm  afraid  your  tea  is  quite  cold.  Boozy  ? 
How  singular !  I  hope  it  doesn't  imply  alco- 
holic habits." 

"No,"  shaking  his  head  gravely,  so  that 
his  beard  wagged  to  the  judicial  negation. 
"  Takes  so  much  to  tank  me  up  I  can't  afford 
it,  let  alone  it  ain't  moral." 


A  Night's  Lodging  99 

The  two  ate  with  haste,  the  stranger  from 
habit  and  experience,  Father  Wiliston  for 
fear  of  Bettina's  sudden  return.  When  the 
last  egg  and  slice  of  bread  had  disappeared, 
the  stranger  sat  back  with  a  wheezing  sigh. 

"I  wonder,"  began  Father  Wiliston  mild- 
ly, "Mr.  Toboso — Toboso  is  the  last  name, 
isn't  it,  and  Del  the  first?" 

"Ah,"  the  other  wheezed  mysteriously, 
"I  don't  know  about  that,  Elder.  That's 
always  a  question." 

"You  don't  know !     You  don't  know !" 

"Got  it  off'n  another  man,"  went  on  To- 
boso sociably.  "He  said  he  wouldn't  take 
fifty  dollars  for  it.  I  didn't  have  no  money 
nor  him  either,  and  he  rolled  off'n  the  top  of 
the  train  that  night  or  maybe  the  next.  I 
don't  know.  I  didn't  roll  him.  It  was  in 
Dakota,  over  a  canon  with  no  special  bottom. 
He  scattered  himself  on  the  way  down.  But 
I  says,  if  that  name's  worth  fifty  dollars,  it's 
mine.  Del  Toboso.  That's  mine.  Sounds 
valuable,  don't  it?" 


ioo         A  Night's  Lodging 

Father  Wiliston  fell  into  a  reverie.  "To- 
boso?  Why,  yes.  Dulcinea  del  Toboso.  I 
remember,  now." 

"What's  that?  Dulcinea,  was  it?  And 
you  knowed  him?" 

"A  long  while  ago  when  I  was  younger. 
It  was  in  a  green  cover.  'Don  Quixote' — he 
was  in  a  cage,  'The  Knight  of  the  Rueful 
Countenance.'  He  had  his  face  between  the 
bars." 

"Well,"  said  Toboso,  "you  must  have 
knowed  him.  He  always  looked  glum,  and 
I've  seen  him  in  quad  myself." 

"Yes.  Sancho  Panza.  Dulcinea  del  To- 
boso." 

"I  never  knowed  that  part  of  it.  Dul- 
cinea del  Toboso!  Well,  that's  me.  You 
know  a  ruck  of  fine  names,  Elder.  It  sounds 
like  thirteen  trumps,  now,  don't  it  ?" 

Father  Wiliston  roused  himself,  and  dis- 
criminated. "But  you  look  more  like  San- 
cho Panza.." 

"Do?     Well,   I  never  knowed  that  one 


A  Night's  Lodging         101 

Must  've  been  a  Greaser.     Dulcinea's  good 
enough." 

Father  Wiliston  began  to  feel  singularly 
happy  and  alive.  The  regular  and  even 
paced  Timothy,  his  fidgeting  wife,  and  the 
imperious  Bettina  were  to  some  extent  shad- 
ows and  troubles  in  the  evening  of  his  life. 
They  were  careful  people,  who  were  hemmed 
in  and  restricted,  who  somehow  hemmed  in 
and  restricted  him.  They  lived  up  to 
precedents.  Toboso  did  not  seem  to  depend 
on  .precedents.  He  had  the  free  speech,  the 
casual  inconsequence,  the  primitive  mystery, 
desired  of  the  boy's  will  and  the  wind's  will, 
and  travelled  after  by  the  long  thoughts  of 
youth.  He  was  wind-beaten,  burned  red  by 
the  sun,  ragged  of  coat  and  beard,  huge,  fat, 
wallowing  in  the  ease  of  his  flesh.  One 
looked  at  him  and  remembered  the  wide 
world  full  of  crossed  trails  and  slumbering 
swamps. 

Father  Wiliston  had  long,  straight  white 
hair,  falling  beside  his  pale-veined  and  spirit- 


IO2         A  Night's  Lodging 

ual  forehead  and  thin  cheeks.  He  propped 
his  forehead  on  one  bony  hand,  and  looked  at 
Toboso  with  eyes  of  speculation.  If  both 
men  were  what  some  would  call  eccentric,  to 
each  other  they  seemed  only  companionable, 
which,  after  all,  is  the  main  thing. 

"I  have  thought  of  late,"  continued  Fa- 
ther Wiliston  after  a  pause,  "that  I  should 
like  to  travel,  to  examine  human  life,  say,  on 
the  highway.  I  should  think,  now,  your 
manner  of  living  most  interesting.  You  go 
from  house  to  house,  do  you  not  ? — from  city 
to  city?  Like  Ulysses,  you  see  men  and 
their  labors,  and  you  pass  on.  Like  the 
apostles — who  surely  were  wise  men,  be- 
sides that  were  especially  maintained  of  God 
— like  them,  and  the  pilgrims  to  shrines,  you 
go  with  wallet  and  staff  or  merely  with  Faith 
for  your  baggage." 

"There  don't  nothing  bother  you  in  warm 
weather,  that's  right,"  said  Toboso,  "except 
your  grub.  And  that  ain't  any  more  than's 
interesting.  If  it  wasn't  for  looking  after 


A  Night's  Lodging         103 

meals,  a  man  on  the  road  might  get  right 
down  lazy." 

"Why,  just  so !  How  wonderful !  Now, 
do  you  suppose,  Mr.  Toboso,  do  you  suppose 
it  feasible?  I  should  very  much  like,  if  it 
could  be  equably  arranged,  I  should  very 
much  like  to  have  this  experience." 

Toboso  reflected.  "There  ain't  many  of 
your  age  on  the  road."  An  idea  struck  him 
suddenly.  "But  supposing  you  were  going 
sort  of  experimenting,  like  that — and  there's 
some  folks  that  do — supposing  you  could  lay 
your  hands  on  a  little  bunch  of  money  for 
luck,  I  don't  see  nothing  to  stop." 

"Why,  I  think  there  is  some  in  my  desk." 
Toboso   leaned   forward   and   pulled   his 
beard.     The  table  creaked  under  his  elbow. 
"How  much?" 

"I  will  see.  Of  course  you  are  quite 
right." 

"At  your  age,  Elder." 

"It  is  not  as  if  I  were  younger." 

Father  Wiliston  rose  and  hurried  out. 


104         A  Night's  Lodging 

Toboso  sat  still  and  blinked  at  the  lamp. 
"My  Gord !"  he  murmured  and  moaned  con- 
fidentially, "here's  a  game!" 

After  some  time  Father  Wiliston  re- 
turned. "Do  you  think  we  could  start 
now  ?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"Why  sure,  Elder.     What's  hindering?" 

"I  am  fortunate  to  find  sixty  dollars. 
Really,  I  didn't  remember.  And  here's  a 
note  I  have  written  to  my  son  to  explain.  I 
wonder  what  Bettina  did  with  my  hat." 

He  hurried  back  into  the  hall.  Toboso 
took  the  note  from  the  table  and  pocketed  it. 
"Ain't  no  use  taking  risks." 

They  went  out  into  the  warm  night,  under 
pleasant  stars,  and  along  the  road  together 
arm  in  arm. 

"I  feel  pretty  gay,  Elder."  He  broke 
into  bellowing  song,  "Hey,  Jinny!  Ho,  Jin- 
ny! Listen,  love,  to  me." 

"Really,  I  feel  cheerful,  too,  Mr.  Toboso, 
wonderfully  cheerful." 

"Dulcinea,  Elder.  Dulcinea's  me  name. 
Hey,  Jinny !  Ho,  Jinny !" 


A  Night's  Lodging         105 

"How  singular  it  is !  I  feel  very  cheerful. 
I  think — really,  I  think  I  should  like  to  learn 
that  song  about  Jinny.  It  seems  such  a 
cheerful  song." 

"Hit  her  up,  Elder,"  wheezed  Toboso  jo- 
vially. "Now  then"— 

"Hey,  Jinny!  Ho,  Jinny!  Listen,  love, 
to  me." 

So  they  went  arm  in  arm  with  a  roaring 
and  a  tremulous  piping. 

The  lamp  flickered  by  the  open  window  as 
the.  night  breeze  rose.  Bettina  came  home 
betimes  and  cleared  the  table.  The  memory 
of  a  Scandinavian  caress  was  too  recent  to 
leave  room  for  her  to  remark  that  there  were 
signs  of  devastating  appetite,  that  dishes  had 
been  used  unaccountably,  and  that  "Fater" 
had  gone  somewhat  early  to  bed.  Timothy 
and  his  wife  returned  late.  All  windows 
and  doors  in  the  house  of  Timothy  were 
closed,  and  the  last  lamp  was  extinguished. 

Father  Wiliston  and  Toboso  went  down 


106         A  Night's  Lodging 

the  hill,  silently,  with  furtive,  lawless  steps 
through  the  cluster  of  houses  in  the  hollow, 
called  Ironville,  and  followed  then  the  road 
up  the  chattering  hidden  brook.  The  road 
came  from  the  shadows  of  this  gorge  at 
last  to  meadows  and  wide  glimmering 
skies,  and  joined  the  highway  to  Redfield. 
Presently  they  came  to  where  a  grassy 
side  road  slipped  into  the  highway  from 
the  right,  out  of  a  land  of  bush  and  swamp 
and  small  forest  trees  of  twenty  or  thirty 
years'  growth.  A  large  chestnut  stood  at 
the  corner. 

"Hey,  Jinny!"  wheezed  Toboso.  "Let's 
look  at  that  tree,  Elder." 

"Look  at  it?     Yes,  yes.     What  for?" 

Toboso  examined  the  bark  by  the  dim 
starlight;  Father  Wiliston  peered  anxiously 
through  his  glasses  to  where  Toboso' s  finger 
pointed. 

"See  those  marks?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't.     Really,  I'm  sorry." 

"Feel  'em,  then." 


A  Night's  Lodging         107 

And  Father  Wiliston  felt,  with  eager,  ex- 
cited finger. 

"Them  there  mean  there's  lodging  out 
here;  empty  house,  likely." 

"Do  they,  indeed.  Very  singular!  Most 
interesting!"  And  they  turned  into  the 
grassy  road.  The  brushwood  in  places  had 
grown  close  to  it,  though  it  seemed  to  be  still 
used  as  a  cart  path.  They  came  to  a  swamp, 
rank  with  mouldering  vegetation,  then  to 
rising  ground  where  once  had  been  mead- 
ows, pastures,  and  plough  lands. 

Father  Wiliston  was  aware  of  vaguely 
stirring  memories.  Four  vast  and  aged 
maple  trees  stood  close  by  the  road,  and  their 
leaves  whispered  to  the  night ;  behind  them, 
darkly,  was  a  house  with  a  far  sloping  roof 
in  the  rear.  The  windows  were  all  glass- 
less,  all  dark  and  dead-looking,  except  two 
in  a  front  room,  in  which  a  wavering  light 
from  somewhere  within  trembled  and  cow- 
ered. They  crept  up,  and  looking  through 
saw  tattered  wall  paper  and  cracked  plaster, 


io8         A  Night's  Lodging 

and  two  men  sitting  on  the  floor,  playing- 
cards  in  the  ghostly  light  of  a  fire  of  boards 
in  the  huge  fireplace. 

"Hey,  Jinny!"  roared  Toboso,  and  the 
two  jumped  up  with  startled  oaths.  "Why, 
it's  Boston  Alley  and  the  Newark  Kid!" 
cried  Toboso.  "Come  on,  Elder." 

The  younger  man  cast  forth  zigzag  flashes 
of  blasphemy.  "You  big  fat  fool!  Don't 
know  no  mor'  'n  to  jump  like  that  on  me! 
Holy  Jims !  I  ain't  made  of  copper." 

Toboso  led  Father  Wiliston  round  by  the 
open  door.  "Hold  your  face,  Kid.  Gents, 
this  here's  a  friend  of  mine  we'll  call  the 
Elder,  and  let  that  go.  I'm  backing  him,  and 
I  hold  that  goes.  The  Kid,"  he  went  on 
descriptively,  addressing  Father  Wiliston, 
"is  what  you  see  afore  you,  Elder.  His 
mouth  is  hot,  his  hands  is  cold,  his  nerves 
is  shaky,  he's  always  feeling  the  cops  grip- 
ping his  shirt-collar.  He  didn't  see  no 
clergy  around.  He  begs  your  pardon. 
Don't  he?  I  says,  don't  he?" 


A  Night's  Lodging         109 

He  laid  a  heavy  red  hand  on  the  Newark 
Kid's  shoulder,  who  wiped  his  pallid  mouth 
with  the  back  of  his  hand,  smiled,  and 
nodded. 

Boston  Alley  seemed  in  his  way  an  agree- 
able man.  He  was  tall  and  slender  limbed, 
with  a  long,  thin  black  mustache,  sinewy 
neck  and  hollow  chest,  and  spoke  gently  with 
a  sweet,  resonant  voice,  saying,  "Glad  to  see 
you,  Elder." 

These  two  wore  better  clothes  than  To- 
boso,  but  he  seemed  to  dominate  them  with 
his  red  health  and  windy  voice,  his  stomach 
and  feet,  and  solidity  of  standing  on  the 
earth. 

Father  Wiliston  stood  the  while  gazing 
vaguely  through  his  spectacles.  The  sense 
of  happy  freedom  and  congenial  companion- 
ship that  had  been  with  him  during  the  star- 
lit walk  had  given  way  gradually  to  a  stream 
of  confused  memories,  and  now  these  mem- 
ories stood  ranged  about,  looking  at  him 
with  sad,  faded  eyes,  asking  him  to  explain 


no         A  Night's  Lodging 

the  scene.  The  language  of  the  Newark 
Kid  had  gone  by  him  like  a  white  hot  blast. 
The  past  and  present  seemed  to  have  about 
the  same  proportions  of  vision  and  reality. 
He  could  not  explain  them  to  each  other. 
He  looked  up  to  Toboso,  pathetically,  trust- 
ing in  his  help. 

"It  was  my  house." 

Toboso  stared  surprised.  "I  ain't  on  to 
you,  Elder." 

"I  was  born  here." 

Indeed  Toboso  was  a  tower  of  strength 
even  against  the  ghosts  of  other  days,  re- 
proachful for  their  long  durance  in  oblivion. 

"Oh !  Well,  by  Jinny !  I  reckon  you'll 
give,  us  lodging,  Elder,"  he  puffed  cheerfully. 
He  took  the  coincidence  so  pleasantly  and 
naturally  that  Father  Wiliston  was  com- 
forted, and  thought  that  after  all  it  was 
pleasant  and  natural  enough. 

The  only  furniture  in  the  room  was  a 
high-backed  settle  and  an  overturned  kitchen 
table,  with  one  leg  gone,  and  the  other  three 


A  Night's  Lodging         1 1 1 

helplessly  in  the  air — so  it  had  lain  possi- 
bly many  years.  Boston  Alley  drew  for- 
ward the  settle  and  threw  more  broken  clap- 
boards on  the  fire,  which  blazed  up  and  filled 
the  room  with  flickering  cheer.  Soon  the 
three  outcasts  were  smoking  their  pipes  and 
the  conversation  became  animated. 

"When  I  was  a  boy,"  said  Father  Wilis- 
ton — "I  remember  so  distinctly — there  were 
remarkable  early  bough  apples  growing  in 
the  orchard." 

"The  pot's  yours,  Elder,"  thundered  To- 
boso.  They  went  out  groping  under  the  old 
apple  trees,  and  returned  laden  with  plump 
pale  green  fruit.  Boston  Alley  and  the  New- 
ark Kid  stretched  themselves  on  the  floor  on 
heaps  of  pulled  grass.  Toboso  and  Father 
Wiliston  sat  on  the  settle.  The  juice  of  the 
bough  apples  ran  with  a  sweet  tang.  The 
palate  rejoiced  and  the  soul  responded.  The 
Newark  Kid  did  swift,  cunning  card  tricks 
that  filled  Father  Wiliston  with  wonder  and 
pleasure. 


H2         A  Night's  Lodging 

"My  dear  young  man,  I  don't  see  how 
you  do  it!" 

The  Kid  was  lately  out  of  prison  from  a 
two  years'  sentence,  "only  for  getting  into 
a  house  by  the  window  instead  of  the  door," 
as  Boston  Alley  delicately  explained,  and 
the  "flies,"  meaning  officers  of  the  law,  "are 
after  him  again  for  reasons  he  ain't  quite 
sure  of."  The  pallor  of  slum  birth  and 
breeding,  and  the  additional  prison  pallor, 
made  his  skin  look  curious  where  the  grime 
had  not  darkened  it.  He  had  a  short-jawed, 
smooth-shaven  face,  a  flat  mouth  and  light 
hair,  and  was  short  and  stocky,  but  lithe  and 
noiseless  in  movement,  and  inclined  to  say 
little.  Boston  Alley  was  a  man  of  some 
slight  education,  who  now  sometimes  sung 
in  winter  variety  shows,  such  songs  as  he 
picked  up  here  and  there  in  summer  wander- 
ings, for  in  warm  weather  he  liked  footing 
the  road  better,  partly  because  the  green 
country  sights  were  pleasant  to  him,  and 
partly  because  he  was  irresolute  and  keeping 


A  Night's  Lodging         113 

engagements  was  a  distress.  He  seemed 
agreeable  and  sympathetic. 

"He  ain't  got  no  more  real  feelings  'n  a 
fish,"  said  Toboso,  gazing  candidly  at  Bos- 
ton, but  speaking  to  Father  Wiliston,  "and 
yet  he  looks  like  he  had  'em,  and  a  man's 
glad  to  see  him.  Ain't  seen  you  since  fall, 
Boston,  but  I  see  the  Kid  last  week  at  a 
hang-out  in  Albany.  Well,  gents,  this  ain't 
a  bad  lay." 

Toboso  himself  had  been  many  years  on 
the  road.  He  was  in  a  way  a  man  of  much 
force  and  decision,  and  probably  it  was  an- 
other element  in  him,  craving  sloth  and  easy 
feeding,  which  kept  him  in  this  submerged 
society;  although  here,  too,  there  seemed 
room  for  the  exercise  of  his  dominance.  He 
leaned  back  in  the  settle,  and  had  his  hand  on 
Father  Wiliston's  shoulder.  His  face 
gleamed  redly  over  his  bison  beard. 

"It's  a  good  lay.  And  we're  gay,  Elder. 
Ain't  we  gay?  Hey,  Jinny!" 

"Yes,  yes,  Toboso.     But  this  young  man 


U4         A  Night's  Lodging 

— I'm  sure  he  must  have  great  talents,  great 
talents,  quite  remarkable.  Ah — yes,  Jinny !" 
"Hey,  Jinny,"  they  sang  together,  "Ho, 
Jinny!  Listen,  love,  to  me.  I'll  sing  to 
you,  and  play  to  you,  a  dulcet  melode-e-e" 
— while  Boston  danced  a  shuffle  and  the 
Kid  snapped  the  cards  in  time.  Then,  at 
Toboso's  invitation  and  command,  Boston 
sang  a  song,  called  "The  Cheerful  Man," 
resembling  a  ballad,  to  a  somewhat  monot- 
onous tune,  and  perhaps  known  in  the  music 
halls  of  the  time — all  with  a  sweet,  resonant 
voice  and  a  certain  pathos  of  intonation : — 

"I  knew  a  man  across  this  land 
Came  waving  of  a  cheerful  hand, 
Who  drew  a  gun  and  gave  some  one 
A  violent  contus-i-on, 
This  cheerful  man. 

"They  sent  him  up,  he  fled  from  'quad' 
By  a  window  and  the  grace  of  God, 
Picked  up  a  wife  and  children  six, 
And  wandered  into  politics, 
This  cheerful  man. 


A  Night's  Lodging         1 1 5 

"In  politics  he  was,  I  hear, 
A  secret,  subtle  financier — 
So  the  jury  says,  'But  we  agree 
He  quits  this  sad  community, 
This  cheerful  man.' 

"His  wife  and  six  went  on  the  town, 
And  he  went  off;  without  a  frown 
Reproaching  Providence,  went  he 
And  got  another  wife  and  three, 
This  cheerful  man. 

"He  runs  a  cross-town  car  to-day 
From  Bleecker  Street  to  Avenue  A. 
He  swipes  the  fares  with  skilful  ease, 
Keeps  up  his  hope,  and  tries  to  please, 
This  cheerful  man. 

"Our  life  is  mingled  woe  and  bliss, 
Man  that  is  born  of  woman  is 
Short-lived  and  goes  to  his  long  home. 
Take  heart,  and  learn  a  lesson  from 
This  cheerful  man." 

"But,"  said  Father  Wiliston,  "don't  you 
think  really,  Mr.  Alley,  that  the  moral  is  a 
little  confused  ?  I  don't  mean  intentionally," 
he  added,  with  anxious  precaution,  "but 
don't  you  think  he  should  have  reflected" — 


1 1 6         A  Night's  Lodging 

"You're  right,  Elder,"  said  Toboso,  with 
decision.  "It's  like  that.  It  ain't  moral. 
When  a  thing  ain't  moral  that  settles  it." 
And  Boston  nodded  and  looked  sympathetic 
with  every  one. 

"I  was  sure  you  would  agree  with  me," 
said  Father  Wiliston.  He  felt  himself 
growing  weary  now  and  heavy-eyed.  Pres- 
ently somehow  he  was  leaning  on  Toboso 
with  his  head  on  his  shoulder.  Toboso' s 
arm  was  around  him,  and  Toboso  began  to 
hum  in  a  kind  of  wheezing  lullaby,  "Hey, 
Jinny!  Ho,  Jinny!" 

"I  am  very  grateful,  my  dear  friends," 
murmured  Father  Wiliston.  "I  have  lived 
a  long  time.  I  fear  I  have  not  always  been 
careful  in  my  course,  and  am  often  forgetful. 
I  think" — drowsily — "I  think  that  happi- 
ness must  in  itself  be  pleasing  to  God.  I 
was  often  happy  before  in  this  room.  I  re- 
member— my  dear  mother  sat  here — who  is 
now  dead.  We  have  been  quite,  really  quite 
cheerful  to-night.  My  mother — was  very 


A  Night's  Lodging         117 

judicious — an  excellent  wise  woman — she 
died  long  ago."  So  he  was  asleep  before 
any  one  was  aware,  while  Toboso  crooned 
huskily,  "Hey,  Jinny!"  and  Boston  Alley 
and  the  Newark  Kid  sat  upright  and  stared 
curiously. 

"Holy  Jims!"  said  the  Kid. 

Toboso  motioned  them  to  bring  the  pulled 
grass.  They  piled  it  on  the  settle,  let  Father 
Wiliston  down  softly,  brought  the  broken 
table,  and  placed  it  so  that  he  could  not  roll 
off. 

"Well,"  said  Toboso,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  "I  guess  we'd  better  pick  him  and  be 
off.  He's  got  sixty  in  his  pocket." 

"Oh,"  said  Boston,  "that's  it,  is  it?" 

"It's  my  find,  but  seeing  you's  here  I  takes 
half  and  give  you  fifteen  apiece." 

"Well,  that's  right." 

"And  I  guess  the  Kid  can  take  it  out." 

The  Kid  found  the  pocketbook  with  sen- 
sitive gliding  fingers,  and  pulled  it  out.  To- 
boso counted  and  divided  the  bills. 


1 1 8         A  Night's  Lodging 

"Well,"  whispered  Toboso  thoughtfully, 
"if  the  Elder  now  was  forty  years  younger,  I 
wouldn't  want  a  better  pardner."  They  tip- 
toed out  into  the  night.  "But,"  he  con- 
tinued, "looking  at  it  that  way,  o'  course  he 
ain't  got  no  great  use  for  his  wad  and  won't 
remember  it  till  next  week.  Heeled  all 
right,  anyhow.  Only,  I  says  now,  I  says, 
there  ain't  no  vice  in  him." 

"Mammy  tuck  me  up,  no  licks  to-night," 
said  the  Kid,  plodding  in  front.  "I  ain't 
got  nothing  against  him." 

Boston  Alley  only  fingered  the  bills  in  his 
pocket. 

It  grew  quite  dark  in  the  room  they  had 
left  as  the  fire  sunk  to  a  few  flames,  then  to 
dull  embers  and  an  occasional  darting  spark. 
The  only  sound  was  Father  Wiliston's  light 
breathing. 

When  he  awoke  the  morning  was  dim  in 
the  windows.  He  lay  a  moment  confused 
in  mind,  then  sat  up  and  looked  around. 

"Dear  me !     Well,  well,  I  dare  say  Toboso 


A  Night's  Lodging         119 

thought  I  was  too  old.  I  dare  say" — get- 
ting on  his  feet — "I  dare  say  they  thought 
it  would  be  unkind  to  tell  me  so." 

He  wandered  through  the  dusky  old 
rooms  and  up  and  down  the  creaking  stairs, 
picking  up  bits  of  recollection,  some  vivid, 
some  more  dim  than  the  dawn,  some  full  of 
laughter,  some  that  were  leaden  and  sad; 
then  out  into  the  orchard  to  find  a  bough 
apple  in  the  dewy  grasses;  and,  kneeling 
under  the  gnarled  old  tree  to  make  his  morn- 
ing .  prayer,  which  included  in  petition  the 
three  overnight  revellers,  he  went  in  fluent 
phrase  and  broken  tones  among  eldest  mem- 
ories. 

He  pushed  cheerfully  into  the  grassy  road 
now,  munching  his  apple  and  humming, 
"Hey,  Jinny!  Ho,  Jinny!"  He  examined 
the  tree  at  the  highway  with  fresh  interest. 
"How  singular!  It  means  an  empty  house. 
Very  intelligent  man,  Toboso." 

Bits  of  grass  were  stuck  on  his  back  and 
a  bramble  dragged  from  his  coat  tail.  He 


120         A  Night's  Lodging 

plodded  along  in  the  dust  and  wabbled  ab- 
sent-mindedly from  one  side  of  the  road  to 
the  other.  The  dawn  towered  behind  him 
in  purple  and  crimson,  lifted  its  robe  and 
canopy,  and  flung  some  kind  of  glittering 
gauze  far  beyond  him.  He  did  not  notice  it 
till  he  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  above  Iron- 
ville  with  Timothy's  house  in  sight.  Then 
he  stopped,  turned,  and  was  startled  a  mo- 
ment; then  smiled  companionably  on  the 
state  and  glory  of  the  morning,  much  as  on 
Toboso  and  the  card  tricks  of  the  Newark 
Kid. 

"Really,"  he  murmured,  "I  have  had  a 
very  good  time." 

He  met  Timothy  in  the  hall. 

"Been  out  to  walk  early,  father?  Wait — 
there's  grass  and  sticks  on  your  coat." 

It  suddenly  seemed  difficult  to  explain  the 
entire  circumstances  to  Timothy,  a  settled 
man  and  girt  with  precedent. 

"Did  you  enjoy  it? — Letter  you  dropped? 
No,  I  haven't  seen  it.  Breakfast  is  ready." 


A  Night's  Lodging         121 

Neither  Bettina  nor  Mrs.  Timothy  had 
seen  the  letter. 

"No  matter,  my  dear,  no  matter.  I — 
really,  I've  had  a  very  good  time." 

Afterward  he  came  out  on  the  porch  with 
his  Bible  and  Concordance,  sat  down  and 
heard  Bettina  brushing  his  hat  and  ejaculat- 
ing, "Fater!"  Presently  he  began  to  nod 
drowsily  and  his  head  dropped  low  over  the 
Concordance.  The  chickens  clucked  drow- 
sily in  the  road. 


On  Edom  Hill 

i. 

CHARLIE  SEBASTIAN  was  a  turf- 
man, meaning  that  he  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  race-horses,  and  knew 
property  as  rolls  of  bank  bills,  of  which 
one  now  and  then  suddenly  has  none  at  all ; 
or  as  pacers  and  trotters  that  are  given  to 
breaking  and  unaccountably  to  falling  off  in 
their  nervous  systems;  or  as  "Association 
Shares"  and  partnership  investments  in  a 
training  stable;  all  capable  of  melting  and 
going  down  in  one  vortex.  So  it  happened 
at  the  October  races.  And  from  this  it  arose 
that  in  going  between  two  heated  cities 
and  low  by  the  sea  he  stopped  among  the 
high  hills  that  were  cold. 

He  was  a  tall  man  with  a  pointed  beard, 
strong  of  shoulder  and  foot,  and  without  fear 


On  Edom  Hill  123 

in  his  eyes.  After  two  hours'  riding  he 
woke  from  a  doze  and  argued  once  more 
that  he  was  a  "phenomenally  busted  man." 
It  made  no  difference,  after  all,  which  city 
he  was  in.  Looking  out  at  the  white  hills 
that  showed  faintly  in  the  storm,  it  occurred 
to  him  that  this  was  not  the  railway  line  one 
usually  travelled  to  the  end  in  view.  It  was 
singular,  the  little  difference  between  choices. 
You  back  the  wrong  horse;  then  you  drink 
beer  instead  of  fizz,  and  the  results  of  either 
are  tolerable.  Let  a  man  live  lustily  and 
there's  little  to  regret.  He  had  found  ruin 
digestible  before,  and  never  yet  gone  to  the 
dogs  that  wait  to  devour  human  remnants, 
but  had  gotten  up  and  fallen  again,  and  on 
the  whole  rejoiced.  Stomach  and  lungs  of 
iron,  a  torrent  of  red  blood  in  vein  and  ar- 
tery maintain  their  consolations;  hopes  rise 
again,  blunders  and  evil  doings  seem  to  be 
practically  outlived.  So  without  theory  ran 
Sebastian's  experience.  The  theory  used  to 
be  that  his  sin  would  find  a  man  out.  There 


124  On   Edom  Hill 

were  enough  of  Sebastian's  that  had  gone 
out  and  never  returned  to  look  for  him.  So 
too  with  mistakes  and  failures.  A  little 
while,  a  year  or  more,  and  you  are  busy  with 
other  matters.  It  is  a  stirring  world,  and 
offers  no  occupation  for  ghosts.  The  drag- 
ging sense  of  depression  that  he  felt  seemed 
natural  enough ;  not  to  be  argued  down,  but 
thrown  aside  in  due  time.  Yet  it  was  a  feel- 
ing of  pallid  and  cold  futility,  like  the  spec- 
tral hills  and  wavering  snow. 

"I  might  as  well  go  back !" 

He  tossed  a  coin  to  see  whether  it  was 
fated  he  should  drop  off  at  the  next  station, 
and  it  was. 

"Ramoth!"  cried  the  brakeman. 

Sebastian  held  in  his  surprise  as  a  matter 
of  habit. 

But  on  the  platform  in  the  drift  and  float 
of  the  snow-storm  he  stared  around  at  the 
white  January  valley,  at  the  disappearing 
train,  at  the  sign  above  the  station  door, 
"Ramoth." 


On  Edom   Hill  125 

"That's  the  place,"  he  remarked.  "There 
wasn't  any  railroad  then." 

There  were  hidden  virtues  in  a  flipped 
coin.  Sebastian  had  his  superstitions. 

The  road  to  Ramoth  village  from  the  sta- 
tion curves  about  to  the  south  of  the  great 
bare  dome  that  is  called  Edom  Hill,  but  Se- 
bastian, without  inquiry,  took  the  fork  to  the 
left  which  climbed  up  the  hill  without  com- 
promise, and  seemed  to  be  little  used. 

Yet  in  past  times  Edom  Hill  was  noted  in 
a  small  way  as  a  hill  that  upheld  the  house 
of  a  stern  abolitionist,  and  in  a  more  secret 
way  as  a  station  in  the  "underground  rail- 
road," or  system  by  which  runaway  slaves 
were  passed  on  to  Canada.  But  when  Char- 
lie Sebastian  remembered  his  father  and 
Edom  Hill,  the  days  of  those  activities  were 
passed.  The  abolitionist  had  nothing  to  ex- 
ercise resistance  and  aggression  on  but  his 
wind-blown  farm  and  a  boy,  who  was  ag- 
gressive to  seek  out  mainly  the  joys  of  this 
world,  and  had  faculties  of  resistance.  There 


126  On  Edom  Hill 

were  bitter  clashes;  young  Sebastian  fled, 
and  came  upon  a  stable  on  a  stud  farm,  and 
from  there  in  due  time  went  far  and  wide, 
and  found  tolerance  in  time  and  wrote,  offer- 
ing to  "trade  grudges  and  come  to  see  how 
he  was." 

The  answer,  in  a  small,  faint,  cramped, 
unskilful  hand,  stated  the  abolitionist's  death. 
"Won't  you  come  back,  Mr.  Sebastian.  It 
is  lonely.  Harriet  Sebastian."  And  there- 
fore Sebastian  remarked : 

"You  bet  it  is!  Who's  she?  The  old 
man  must  have  married  again." 

In  his  new-found  worldly  tolerance  he  had 
admired  such  aggressive  enterprise,  but  see- 
ing no  interest  in  the  subject,  had  gone  his 
way  and  forgotten  it. 

Beating  up  Edom  Hill  through  the  snow 
was  no  easier  than  twenty  years  before.  Da- 
vid Sebastian  had  built  his  house  in  a  high 
place,  and  looking  widely  over  the  top  of  the 
land,  saw  that  it  was  evil. 

The  drifts  were  unbroken  and  lay  in  long 


On  Edom  Hill  127 

barrows  and  windy  ridges  over  the  roadway. 
The  half-buried  fences  went  parallel  up  the 
white  breast  and  barren  heave  of  the  hill, 
and  disappeared  in  the  storm.  Sebastian 
passed  a  house  with  closed  blinds,  then  at  a 
long  interval  a  barn  and  a  stiff  red  chimney 
with  a  snow-covered  heap  of  ruins  at  its  foot. 
The  station  was  now  some  miles  behind  and 
the  dusk  was  coming  on.  The  broad  top  of 
the  hill  was  smooth  and  rounded  gradually. 
Brambles,  bushes,  reeds,  and  the  tops  of 
fences  broke  the  surface  of  the  snow,  and  be- 
side these  only  a  house  by  the  road,  looking 
dingy  and  gray,  with  a  blackish  barn  at- 
tached, four  old  maples  in  front,  an  orchard 
behind.  Far  down  the  hill  to  the  right  lay 
the  road  to  Ramoth,  too  far  for  its  line  of 
naked  trees  to  be  seen  in  the  storm.  The 
house  on  Edom  Hill  had  its  white  throne  to 
itself,  and  whatever  dignity  there  might  be 
in  solitude. 

He  did  not  pause  to  examine  the  house, 
only  noticed  the  faint  smoke  in  one  chimney, 


128  On  Edom  Hill 

opened  the  gate,  and  pushed  through  untrod- 
den snow  to  the  side  door  and  knocked.  The 
woman  who  came  and  stood  in  the  door  sur- 
prised him  even  more  than  "Ramoth !"  called 
by  the  brakeman.  Without  great  reason  for 
seeming  remarkable,  it  seemed  remarkable. 
He  stepped  back  and  stared,  and  the  two, 
looking  at  each  other,  said  nothing.  Sebas- 
tian recovered. 

"My  feet  are  cold,"  he  said  slowly.  "I 
shouldn't  like  to  freeze  them." 

She  drew  back  and  let  him  in,  left  him  to 
find  a  chair  and  put  his  feet  against  the  stove. 
She  sat  down  near  the  window  and  went  on 
knitting.  The  knitting  needles  glittered  and 
clicked.  Her  face  was  outlined  against  the 
gray  window,  the  flakes  too  glittered  and 
clicked.  It  looked  silent,  secret,  repressed, 
as  seen  against  the  gray  window ;  like  some- 
thing chilled  and  snowed  under,  cold  and 
sweet,  smooth  pale  hair  and  forehead,  deep 
bosom  and  slender  waist.  She  looked  young 


On  Edom  Hill  129 

enough  to  be  called  in  the  early  June  of  her 
years. 

"There's  good  proportion  and  feature, 
but  not  enough  nerves  for  a  thoroughbred. 
But,"  he  thought,  "she  looks  as  if  she  needed, 
as  you  might  say,  revelry,"  and  he  spoke 
aloud. 

"Once  I  was  in  this  section  and  there  was 
a  man  named  Sebastian  lived  here,  or  maybe 
it  was  farther  on." 

She  said,  "It  was  here"  in  a  low  voice. 

"David  Sebastian  now,  that  was  it,  or 
something  that  way.  Stiff,  sort  of  grim  old 
— oh,  but  you  might  be  a  relative,  you  see. 
Likely  enough.  So  you  might." 

"I  might  be." 

"Just  so.     You  might  be." 

He  rubbed  his  hands  and  leaned  back,  star- 
ing at  the  window.  The  wind  was  rising 
outside  and  blew  the  snow  in  whirls  and 
sheets. 

"Going  to  be  a  bad  night.    I  came  up  from 


130  On  Edom  Hill 

the  station.  If  a  man's  going  anywhere  to- 
night, he'll  be  apt  not  to  get  there." 

"You  ought  to  have  taken  the  right  hand 
at  the  fork." 

"Well,  I  don't  know." 

She  rose  and  took  a  cloak  from  the  table. 
Sebastian  watched  her. 

"I  must  feed  the  pony  and  shut  up  the 
chickens." 

She  hesitated.  A  refusal  seemed  to  have 
been  hinted  to  the  hinted  request  for  hospital- 
ity. But  Sebastian  saw  another  point. 

"Now,  that's  what  I'm  going  to  do  for 
you." 

She  looked  on  silently,  as  he  passed  her 
with  assured  step,  not  hesitating  at  doors,  but 
through  the  kitchen  to  the  woodshed,  and 
there  in  the  darkness  of  a  pitch-black  corner 
took  down  a  jingling  lantern  and  lit  it.  She 
followed  him  silently  into  the  yard,  that  was 
full  of  drifts  and  wild  storm,  to  the  barn, 
where  she  listened  to  him  shake  down  hay 
and  bedding,  measure  oats,  slap  the  pony's 


On  Edom  Hill  131 

flank  and  chirp  cheerfully.  Then  he  plunged 
through  a  low  door  and  she  heard  the  bolt  in 
the  chicken  shed  rattle.  It  had  grown  dark 
outside.  He  came  out  and  held  the  barn 
door,  waiting  for  her  to  step  out,  and  they 
stood  side  by  side  on  the  edge  of  the  storm. 

"How  did  you  know  the  lantern  was 
there?" 

"Lantern!  Oh,  farmhouses  always  keep 
the  lantern  in  the  nearest  corner  of  the  wood- 
shed, if  it  isn't  behind  the  kitchen  door." 

But  she  did  not  move  to  let  him  close  the 
barn.  He  looked  down  at  her  a  moment  and 
then  out  at  the  white  raging  night. 

"Can't  see  forty  feet,  can  you?  But,  of 
course,  if  you  don't  want  to  give  me  a  roof 
I'll  have  to  take  my  chances.  Look  poor, 
don't  they  ?  Going  to  let  me  shut  this  door  ?" 

"I  am  quite  alone  here." 

"So  am  I.     That's  the  trouble." 

"I  don't  think  you  understand,"  she  said 
quietly,  speaking  in  a  manner  low,  cool,  and 
self-contained. 


132  On  Edom  Hill 

"I've  got  more  understanding  now  than 
I'll  have  in  an  hour,  maybe." 

"I  will  lend  you  the  lantern." 

"Oh,  you  mightn't  get  it  back."  He 
drew  the  barn  door  to,  which  forced  her  to 
step  forward.  A  gust  of  wind  about  the  cor- 
ner of  the  barn  staggered  and  threw  her 
back.  He  caught  her  about  her  shoulders 
and  held  her  steadily,  and  shot  the  bolt 
with  the  hand  that  held  the  lantern. 

"That's  all  right.  A  man  has  to  take  his 
chances.  I  dare  say  a  woman  had  better 
not." 

If  Sebastian  exaggerated  the  dangers  of 
the  night,  if  there  were  any  for  him,  looked 
at  from  her  standpoint  they  might  seem  large 
and  full  of  dread.  The  wind  howled  with 
wild  hunting  sound,  and  shrieked  against  the 
eaves  of  the  house.  The  snow  drove  thick 
and  blinding.  The  chimneys  were  invisible. 
A  woman  easily  transfers  her  own  feelings 
to  a  man  and  interprets  them  there.  In  the 
interest  of  that  interpretation  it  might  no 


On  Edom  Hill  133 

longer  seem  possible  that  man's  ingratitude, 
or  his  failings  and  passions,  could  be  as  un- 
kind as  winter  wind  and  bitter  sky. 
She  caught  her  breath  in  a  moment. 
"You  will  stay  to  supper,"  she  said,  and 
stepped  aside. 

"No.    As  I'm  going,  I'd  better  go." 
She   went   before   him   across   the   yard, 
opened  the  woodshed  door  and  stood  in  it. 
He  held  out  the  lantern,  but  she  did  not  take 
it.     He  lifted  it  to  look  at  her  face,  and  she 
smiled  faintly. 
"Please  come  in." 

"Better  go  on,  if  I'm  going.     Am  I  ?" 
"I'm  very  cold.     Please  come  in." 
They  went  in  and  closed  the  doors  against 
the  storm.     The  house  was  wrapped  round, 
and  shut  away  from  the  sight  of  Edom  Hill, 
and  Edom  Hill  was  wrapped  round  and  shut 
away  from  the  rest  of  the  world. 


134  On  Edom  Hill 

II. 

Revelry  has  need  of  a  certain  co-operation. 
Sebastian  drew  heavily  on  his  memory  for 
entertainment,  told  of  the  combination  that 
had  "cleaned  him  out,"  and  how  he  might  get 
in  again  in  the  Spring,  only  he  felt  a  bit  tired 
in  mind  now,  and  things  seemed  dead.  He 
explained  the  mysteries  of  "short  prices,  sell- 
ing allowances,  past  choices,  hurdles  and 
handicaps,"  and  told  of  the  great  October 
races,  where  Decatur  won  from  Clifford  and 
Lady  Mary,  and  Lady  Mary  ran  through  the 
fence  and  destroyed  the  features  of  the 
jockey.  But  the  quiet,  smooth-haired  wom- 
an maintained  her  calm,  and  offered  neither 
question  nor  comment,  only  smiled  and 
flushed  faintly  now  and  then.  She  seemed 
as  little  stirred  by  new  tumultuous  things 
as  the  white  curtains  at  the  windows,  that 
moved  slightly  when  the  storm,  which 
danced  and  shouted  on  Edom  Hill,  managed 
to  force  a  whistling  breath  through  a  chink. 


On   Edom   Hill  135 

Sebastian  decided  she  was  frozen  up  with 
loneliness  and  the  like.  "She's  got  no  con- 
versation, let  alone  revelry."  He  thought  he 
knew  what  her  life  was  like.  "She's  sort  of 
empty.  Nothing  doing  any  time.  It's  the 
off  season  all  the  year.  No  troubles.  Sort 
of  like  a  fish,  as  being  chilly  and  calm,  that 
lives  in  cold  water  till  you  have  to  put  pepper 
on  to  taste  it.  I  know  how  it  goes  on  this 
old  hill." 

She  left  him  soon.  He  heard  her  moving 
about  in  the  kitchen,  and  sometimes  the  clink 
of  a  dish.  He  sat  by  the  stove  and  mused 
and  muttered.  She  came  and  told  him  his 
room  was  on  the  left  of  the  stair;  it  had  a 
stove ;  would  he  not  carry  up  wood  and  have 
his  fire  there?  She  seemed  to  imply  a  pref- 
erence that  he  should.  But  the  burden  and 
oppression  of  his  musings  kept  him  from 
wondering  when  she  had  compromised  her 
scruples  and  fears,  or  why  she  kept  any  of 
them.  He  mounted  the  stair  with  his  wood. 
She  followed  with  a  lamp  and  left  him.  He 


136  On  Edom  Hill 

stared  at  the  closed  door  and  rubbed  his  chin 
thoughtfully,  then  went  to  work  with  his  fire. 
The  house  became  silent,  except  for  the  outer 
tumult.  She  did  not  mount  the  stair  again ; 
it  followed  that  she  slept  below. 

Sebastian  took  a  daguerreotype  from  the 
mantel  and  stared  at  it.  It  was  the  likeness 
of  a  shaven,  grim-faced  man  in  early  middle 
life.  He  examined  it  long  with  a  quizzical 
frown ;  finally  went  to  the  washstand,  opened 
the  drawer  and  took  out  a  razor  with  a  han- 
dle of  yellow  bone,  carried  the  washstand  to 
the  stove,  balanced  the  mirror  against  the 
pitcher,  stropped  the  razor  on  his  hand, 
heated  water  in  a  cup,  slowly  dismantled  his 
face  of  beard  and  mustache,  cast  them  in  the 
stove,  put  the  daguerreotype  beside  the  mir- 
ror, and  compared  critically.  Except  that 
the  face  in  the  daguerreotype  had  a  straight, 
set  mouth,  and  the  face  in  the  mirror  was  one 
full-lipped  and  humorous  and  differently 
lined,  they  were  nearly  the  same. 

"I  wouldn't  have  believed  it." 


On  Edom  Hill  137 

He  put  it  aside  and  looked  around,  whis- 
tling in  meditation.  Then  he  went  back 
again  to  wondering  who  the  pale-haired 
woman  was.  Probably  the  farm  had  changed 
hands.  A  man  whose  father  had  been  dead 
going  on  twenty  years  couldn't  have  that 
kind  of  widowed  stepmother.  He  was  dis- 
qualified. 

A  cold,  unchanging  place,  Edom  Hill, 
lifted  out  of  the  warm,  sapping  currents  of 
life.  It  might  be  a  woman  could  keep  indefi- 
nitely there,  looking  much  the  same.  If  her 
pulse  beat  once  to  an  ordinary  twice,  she 
ought  to  last  twice  as  long.  The  house 
seemed  unchanged.  The  old  things  were  in 
their  old  familiar  places,  David  Sebastian's 
books  on  their  shelves  in  the  room  below,  on 
the  side  table  there  his  great  Bible,  in  which 
he  used  to  write  all  family  records,  with  those 
of  his  reforming  activity.  Sebastian  won- 
dered what  record  stood  of  his  own  flight. 

He  sat  a  few  moments  longer,  then  took 


138  On  Edom   Hill 

his  lamp  and  crept  softly  out  of  the  room  and 
down  the  stairs.  The  sitting-room  was  icily 
cold  now;  the  white  curtains  stirred  noise- 
lessly. He  sat  down  before  the  little  side 
table  and  opened  the  great  book. 

There  were  some  thirty  leaves  between  the 
Old  and  New  Testaments,  most  of  them 
stitched  in.  A  few  at  the  end  were  blank. 
Some  of  the  records  were  obscure,  as — 

"March  5th,  1840.  Saw  light  on  this  sub- 
ject." 

Others  ran : 

"Sept.  ist,  1843.  Rec.  Peter  Cavendish, 
fugitive." 

"Dec.  3d,  ditto.    Rec.  Robert  Henry." 

"April  1 5th,  ditto.  Rec.  one,  ^Esop,"  and 
so  on. 

"Dec.  I4th,  1848.  Have  had  consolation 
from  prayer  for  public  evil." 

"April  2Oth,  1858.  My  son,  Charles  Se- 
bastian, born." 

"April  7th,  1862.  My  wife,  Jane  Sebas- 
tian, died." 


On   Edom  Hill  139 

"July  5th,  1862.  Rec.  Keziah  Andrews  to 
keep  my  house." 

The  dates  of  the  entries  from  that  point 
grew  further  apart,  random  and  obscure; 
here  and  there  a  fact. 

"Nov.  4th,  1876.  Charles  Sebastian  de- 
parted." 

"June  9th,  1877.    Rec.  Harriet." 

"Jan.  1 9th,  1880.  Have  wrestled  in  prayer 
without  consolation  for  Charles  Sebastian." 

This  was  the  last  entry.  A  faint  line  ran 
down  across  the  page  connecting  the  end  of 
"Harriet"  with  the  beginning  of  "Charles." 
Between  the  two  blank  leaves  at  the  end  was 
a  photograph  of  himself  at  seventeen.  He 
remembered  suddenly  how  it  was  taken  by  a 
travelling  photographer,  who  had  stirred  his 
soul  with  curiosity  and  given  him  the  pic- 
ture; and  David  Sebastian  had  taken  it  and 
silently  put  it  away  among  blank  leaves  of 
the  Bible. 

Sebastian  shivered.  The  written  leaves,  the 
look  of  himself  of  twenty  years  before,  the 


140  On   Edom   Hill 

cold,  the  wail  of  the  wind,  the  clicking  flakes 
on  the  window  panes,  these  seemed  now  to  be 
the  dominant  facts  of  life.  Narrow  was  it, 
poor  and  meagre,  to  live  and  labor  with  a 
barren  farm?  The  old  abolitionist  had  cut 
deeper  into  existence  than  he  had.  If  to  deal 
with  the  fate  of  races,  and  wrestle  alone  with 
God  on  Edom  Hill,  were  not  knowledge  and 
experience,  what  was  knowledge  or  experi- 
ence, or  what  should  a  man  call  worth  the 
trial  of  his  brain  and  nerve? 

"He  passed  me.  He  won  hands  down," 
he  muttered,  bending  over  the  page  again. 
"  'Rec.  Harriet.'  That's  too  much  for  me." 

And  he  heard  a  quick  noise  behind  him 
and  turned. 

She  stood  in  the  door,  wide-eyed,  smooth, 
pale  hair  falling  over  one  shoulder,  long 
cloak  half  slipped  from  the  other,  holding  a 
shotgun,  threatening  and  stern. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"Out  gunning  for  me?"  asked  Sebastian 
gravely. 


On   Edom   Hill  141 

She  stared  wildly,  put  the  gun  down, 
cried : 

"You're  Charlie  Sebastian!"  and  fell  on 
her  knees  beside  the  stove,  choking,  sobbing 
and  shaking,  crouching  against  the  cold 
sheet  iron  in  a  kind  of  blind  memory  of  its 
warmth  and  protection. 

"You  still  have  the  drop  on  me,"  said  Se- 
bastian. 

She  shivered  and  crouched  still  and  whis- 
pered : 

"I'm  cold." 

"How  long  have  you  been  here  freezing?" 

Sebastian  thrust  anything  inflammable  at 
hand  into  the  stove,  lit  it  and  piled  in  the 
wood. 

"Not  long.     Only — only  a  few  moments." 

"You  still  have  the  advantage  of  me.  Who 
are  you?" 

"Why,  I'm  Harriet,"  she  said  simply,  and 
looked  up. 

"Just  so.  'Received,  1877.'  How  old  were 
you  then?" 


142  On  Edom  Hill 

"Why,  I  was  eight." 

"Just  so.  Don't  tell  lies,  Harriet.  You've 
been  freezing  a  long  while." 

She  drew  her  cloak  closer  over  the  thin 
white  linen  of  her  gown  with  shaking  hand. 

"I  don't  understand.  I'm  very  cold.  Why 
didn't  you  come  before  ?  It  has  been  so  long 
waiting." 


III. 

The  draft  began  to  roar  and  the  dampers 
to  glow.  She  crept  in  front  of  the  glow.  He 
drew  a  chair  and  sat  down  close  behind  her. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  before?" 

The  question  was  startling,  for  Sebastian 
was  only  conscious  of  a  lack  of  reason  for 
coming.  If  David  Sebastian  had  left  him 
the  farm  he  would  have  heard  from  it,  and 
being  prosperous,  he  had  not  cared.  But  the 
question  seemed  to  imply  some  strong  as- 
sumption and  further  knowledge. 

"You'd  better  tell  me  about  it." 


On   Edom  Hill  143 

"About  what?    At  the  beginning?" 
"Aren't  you  anything  except   'Received, 
Harriet'?" 

"Oh,  I  hadn't  any  father  or  mother  when 
Mr.  Sebastian  brought  me  here.  Is  that  what 
you  mean  ?  But  he  taught  me  to  say  'Har- 
riet Sebastian,'  and  a  great  many  things  he 
taught  me.  Didn't  you  know?  And  about 
his  life  and  what  he  wanted  you  to  do  ?  Be- 
cause, of  course,  we  talked  about  you  nearly 
always  in  the  time  just  before  he  died.  He 
said  you  would  be  sure  to  come,  but  he  died, 
don't  you  see?  only  a  few  years  after,  and 
that  disappointed  him.  He  gave  me  the  pic- 
ture and  said,  'He'll  come,  and  you'll  know 
him  by  this,'  and  he  said,  'He  will  come  poor 
and  miserable.  My  only  son,  so  I  leave  him 
to  you;  and  so,  as  I  did,  you  will  pray  for 
him  twice  each  day.'  It  was  just  like  that, 
'Tell  Charles  there  is  no  happiness  but  in 
duty.  Tell  him  I  found  it  so.'  It  was  a 
night  like  this  when  he  died,  and  Kezzy  was 
asleep  in  her  chair  out  here,  and  I  sat  by  the 


144  On  Edom   Hill 

bed.  Then  he  told  me  I  would  pay  him  all 
in  that  way  by  doing  what  he  meant  to  do  for 
you.  I  was  so  little,  but  I  seemed  to  under- 
stand that  I  was  to  live  for  it,  as  he  had  lived 
to  help  free  the  slaves.  Don't  you  see?  Then 
he  began  calling,  'Charles!  Charles!'  as  if 
you  were  somewhere  near,  and  I  fell  asleep, 
and  woke  and  lay  still  and  listened  to  the 
wind ;  and  when  I  tried  to  get  up  I  couldn't, 
because  he  held  my  hair,  and  he  was  dead. 
But  why  didn't  you  come  ?" 

"It  looks  odd  enough  now,"  Sebastian  ad- 
mitted, and  wondered  at  the  change  from  still 
impassiveness,  pale  and  cool  silence,  to  eager 
speech,  swift  question,  lifted  and  flushed 
face. 

"Then  you  remember  the  letters  ?  But  you 
didn't  come  then.  But  I  began  to  fancy  how 
it  would  be  when  you  came,  and  then  some- 
how it  seemed  as  if  you  were  here.  Out  in 
the  orchard  sometimes,  don't  you  see  ?  And 
more  often  when  Kezzy  was  cross.  And 
when  she  went  to  sleep  by  the  fire  at  night — 


On  Edom  Hill  145 

she  was  so  old — we  were  quite  alone  and 
talked.  Don't  you  remember? — I  mean — 
But  Kezzy  didn't  like  to  hear  me  talking  to 
myself.  'Mutter,  mutter !'  like  that.  'Never 
was  such  a  child !'  And  then  she  died,  too, 
seven — seven  years  ago,  and  it  was  quite  dif- 
ferent. I — I  grew  older.  You  seemed  to 
be  here  quite  and  quite  close  to  me  always. 
There  was  no  one  else,  except —  But,  I  don't 
know  why,  I  had  an  aching  from  having  to 
wait,  and  it  has  been  a  long  time,  hasn't  it  ?" 

"Rather  long.  Go  on.  There  was  no  one 
else?" 

"No.  We  lived  here — I  mean — it  grew 
that  way,  and  you  changed  from  the  picture, 
too,  and  became  like  Mr.  Sebastian,  only 
younger,  and  just  as  you  are  now,  only — not 
quite." 

She  looked  at  him  with  sudden  fear,  then 
dropped  her  eyes,  drew  her  long  hair  around 
under  her  cloak  and  leaned  closer  to  the  fire. 

"But  there  is  so  much  to  tell  you  it  comes 
out  all  mixed." 


146  On  Edom  Hill 

Sebastian  sat  silently  looking  down  at  her, 
and  felt  the  burden  of  his  thinking  grow 
heavier ;  the  pondering  how  David  Sebastian 
had  left  him  an  inheritance  of  advice,  declar- 
ing his  own  life  full  and  brimming,  and  to 
Harriet  the  inheritance  of  a  curious  duty  that 
had  grown  to  people  her  nights  and  days 
with  intense  sheltered  dreams,  and  made  her 
life,  too,  seem  to  her  full  and  brimming,  mul- 
titudinous with  events  and  interchanges, 
himself  so  close  and  cherished  an  actor  in  it 
that  his  own  parallel  unconsciousness  of  it 
had  almost  dropped  out  of  conception.  And 
the  burden  grew  heavier  still  with  the  weight 
of  memories,  and  the  record  between  the  Old 
and  New  Testaments ;  with  the  sense  of  the 
isolation  and  covert  of  the  midnight,  and  the 
storm;  with  the  sight  of  Harriet  crouching 
by  the  fire,  her  story,  how  David  Sebastian 
left  this  world  and  went  out  into  the 
wild  night  crying,  "Charles!  Charles!"  It 
was  something  not  logical,  but  compelling. 
It  forced  him  to  remark  that  his  own  cup  ap- 


On  Edom  Hill  147 

peared  partially  empty  from  this  point  of 
view.  Harriet  seemed  to  feel  that  her  hour 
had  come  and  he  was  given  to  her  hands. 
Success  even  in  methods  of  living  is  a  con- 
vincing thing  over  unsuccess.  Ah,  well !  too 
late  to  remodel  to  David  Sebastian's  no- 
tion. It  was  singular,  though,  a  woman 
silent,  restrained,  scrupulous,  moving  prob- 
ably to  the  dictates  of  village  opinion — 
suddenly  the  key  was  turned,  and  she  threw 
back  the  gates  of  her  prison;  threw  open 
doors,  windows,  intimate  curtains;  asked 
him  to  look  in  and  explore  everywhere  and 
know  all  the  history  and  the  forecasts;  be- 
came simple,  primitive,  unrestrained,  willing 
to  sit  there  at  his  feet  and  as  innocent  as  her 
white  linen  gown.  How  smooth  and  pale 
her  hair  was  and  gentle  cheek,  and  there  were 
little  sleepy  smiles  in  the  corners  of  the  lips. 
He  thought  he  would  like  most  of  all  to  put 
out  his  hand  and  touch  her  cheek  and  sleepy 
smiles,  and  draw  her  hair,  long  and  soft  and 


148  On   Edom   Hill 

pale,  from  under  the  cloak.  On  the  whole, 
it  seemed  probable  that  he  might. 

"Harriet,"  he  said  slowly,  "I'm  going  to 
play  this  hand." 

"Why,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"Take  it,  I'm  not  over  and  above  a  choice 
selection.  I  don't  mention  details,  but  take 
it  as  a  general  fact.  Would  you  want  to 
marry  that  kind  of  a  selection,  meaning  me?" 

"Oh,  yes!  Didn't  you  come  for  that?  I 
thought  you  would." 

"And  I  thought  you  needed  revelry !  You 
must  have  had  a  lot  of  it" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  Listen !  It 
keeps  knocking  at  the  door !" 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  Let  it  knock.  Do 
you  expect  any  more  vagrants  ?" 

"Vagrants?" 

"Like  me." 

"Like  you?  You  only  came  home.  Lis- 
ten !  It  was  like  this  when  he  died.  But  he 
wouldn't  come  to-night  and  stand  outside 
and  knock,  would  he?  Not  to-night,  when 


On  Edom  Hill  149 

you've  come  at  last.  But  he  used  to.  Of 
course,  I  fancied  things.  It's  the  storm. 
There's  no  one  else  now." 

A  thousand  spectres  go  whirling  across 
Edom  Hill  such  winter  nights  and  come  with 
importunate  messages,  but  if  the  door  is  close 
and  the  fire  courageous,  it  matters  little. 
They  are  but  wind  and  drift  and  out  in  the 
dark,  and  if  one  is  in  the  light,  it  is  a  great 
point  to  keep  the  door  fast  against  them  and 
all  forebodings,  and  let  the  coming  days  be 
what  they  will. 

Men  are  not  born  in  a  night,  or  a  year. 

But  if  David  Sebastian  were  a  spectre 
there  at  the  door,  and  thought  differently  on 
any  question,  or  had  more  to  say,  he  was  not 
articulate.  There  is  no  occupation  for 
ghosts  in  a  stirring  world,  nor  efficiency  in 
their  repentance. 

Has  any  one  more  than  a  measure  of  hope, 
and  a  door  against  the  storm?  There  was 
that  much,  at  least,  on  Edom  Hill. 


Sons  of  R.  Rand 

SOME  years  ago,  of  a  summer  afternoon, 
a  perspiring  organ-grinder  and  a 
leathery  ape  plodded  along  the  road  that 
goes  between  thin-soiled  hillsides  and  the 
lake  which  is  known  as  Elbow  Lake  and 
lies  to  the  northeast  of  the  village  of  Salem. 
In  those  days  it  was  a  well-travelled  high- 
way, as  could  be  seen  from  its  breadth  and 
dustiness.  At  about  half  the  length  of  its 
bordering  on  the  lake  there  was  a  spring 
set  in  the  hillside,  and  a  little  pool  contin- 
ually rippled  by  its  inflow.  Some  settler  or 
later  owner  of  the  thin-soiled  hillsides  had 
left  a  clump  of  trees  about  it,  making  as 
sightly  and  refreshing  an  Institute  of  Char- 
ity as  could  be  found.  Another  philan- 
thropist had  added  half  a  cocoanut-shell  to 
the  foundation. 


Sons  of  R.   Rand  151 

The  organ-grinder  turned  in  under  the 
trees  with  a  smile,  in  which  his  front  teeth 
played  a  large  part,  and  suddenly  drew  back 
with  a  guttural  exclamation;  the  leathery 
ape  bumped  against  his  legs,  and  both  as- 
sumed attitudes  expressing  respectively,  in 
an  Italian  and  tropical  manner,  great  sur- 
prise and  abandonment  of  ideas.  A  tall 
man  lay  stretched  on  his  back  beside  the 
spring,  with  a  felt  hat  over  his  face.  Pietro, 
the  grinder,  hesitated.  The  American,  if 
disturbed  and  irascible,  takes  by  the  collar 
and  kicks  with  the  foot :  it  has  sometimes  so 
happened.  The  tall  man  pushed  back  his 
hat  and  sat  up,  showing  a  large-boned  and 
sun-browned  face,  shaven  except  for  a  black 
mustache,  clipped  close.  He  looked  not 
irascible,  though  grave  perhaps,  at  least  un- 
smiling. He  said :  "It's  free  quarters,  Dago. 
Come  in.  Entrez.  Have  a  drink." 

Pietro  bowed  and  gesticulated  with  ami- 
able violence.  "Dry !"  he  said.  "Oh,  hot !" 

"Just  so.      That  a  friend  of  yours?" — 


152  Sons  of  R.  Rand 

pointing  to  the  ape.  "He  ain't  got  a  wither- 
ing sorrow,  has  he?  Take  a  seat." 

Elbow  Lake  is  shaped  as  its  name  implies. 
If  one  were  to  imagine  the  arm  to  which  the 
elbow  belonged,  it  would  be  the  arm  of  a 
muscular  person  in  the  act  of  smiting  a 
peaceable-looking  farmhouse  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  to  the  east.  Considering  the  bouldered 
front  of  the  hill  behind  the  house,  the  im- 
aginary blow  would  be  bad  for  the  imagi- 
nary knuckles.  It  is  a  large  house,  with 
brown,  unlikely  looking  hillsides  around  it, 
huckleberry  knobs  and  ice-grooved  boulders 
here  and  there.  The  land  between  it  and  the 
lake  is  low,  and  was  swampy  forty  years 
ago,  before  the  Rand  boys  began  to  drain  it, 
about  the  time  when  R.  Rand  entered  the 
third  quarter  century  of  his  unpleasant  ex- 
istence. 

R.  Rand  was,  I  suppose,  a  miser,  if  the 
term  does  not  imply  too  definite  a  type. 
The  New  England  miser  is  seldom  gro- 
tesque. He  seems  more  like  congealed  than 


Sons  of  R.  Rand  153 

distorted  humanity.  He  does  not  pinch  a 
penny  so  hard  as  some  of  other  races  are 
said  to  do,  but  he  pinches  a  dollar  harder, 
and  is  quite  as  unlovely  as  any.  R.  Rand's 
methods  of  obtaining  dollars  to  pinch  were 
not  altogether  known,  or  not,  at  least,  re- 
corded— which  accounts  perhaps  for  the 
tradition  that  they  were  of  doubtful  upright- 
ness. He  held  various  mortgages  about  the 
county,  and  his  farm  represented  little  to 
him  except  a  means  of  keeping  his  two  sons 
inexpensively  employed  in  rooting  out 
stones. 

At  the  respective  ages  of  sixteen  and 
seventeen  the  two  sons,  Bob  and  Tom  Rand, 
discovered  the  rooting  out  of  stones  to  be 
unproductive  labor,  if  nothing  grew,  or  was 
expected  to  grow,  in  their  place,  except  more 
stones;  and  the  nature  of  the  counsels  they 
took  may  be  accurately  imagined.  In  the 
autumn  of  '56  they  began  ditching  the 
swamp  in  the  direction  of  the  lake,  and  in  the 
summer  of  '57  raised  a  crop  of  tobacco  in  the 


154  Sons  of  R.   Rand 

northeast  corner,  R.  Rand,  the  father,  mak- 
ing no  comment  the  while.  At  the  proper 
time  he  sold  the  tobacco  to  Packard  &  Co., 
cigar  makers,  of  the  city  of  Hamilton,  still 
making  no  comment,  probably  enjoying 
some  mental  titillation.  Tom  Rand  then 
flung  a  rock  of  the  size  of  his  fist  through 
one  of  the  front  windows,  and  ran  away, 
also  making  no  comment  further  than  that. 
The  broken  window  remained  broken 
twenty-five  years,  Tom  returning  neither  to 
mend  it  nor  to  break  another.  Bob  Rand, 
by  some  bargain  with  his  father,  continued 
the  ditching  and  planting  of  the  swamp  with 
some  profit  to  himself. 

He  evidently  classed  at  least  a  portion 
of  his  father's  manner  of  life  among  the 
things  that  are  to  be  avoided.  He  acquired 
a  family,  and  was  in  the  way  to  bring  it  up  in 
a  reputable  way.  He  further  cultivated  and 
bulwarked  his  reputation.  Society,  mani- 
festing itself  politically,  made  him  sheriff; 
society,  manifesting  itself  ecclesiastically, 


Sons  of  R.   Rand  155 

made  him  deacon.  Society  seldom  fails  to 
smile  on  systematic  courtship. 

The  old  man  continued  to  go  his  way  here 
and  there,  giving  account  of  himself  to  no 
one,  contented  enough  no  doubt  to  have  one 
reputable  son  who  looked  after  his  own  chil- 
dren and  paid  steady  rent  for,  or  bought 
piece  by  piece,  the  land  he  used ;  and  another 
floating  between  the  Rockies  and  the  Missis- 
sippi, whose  doings  were  of  no  importance 
in  the  village  of  Salem.  But  I  doubt,  on  the 
whole,  whether  he  was  softened  in  heart  by 
the  deacon's  manner  or  the  ordering  of  the 
deacon's  life  to  reflect  unfilially  on  his  own. 
Without  claiming  any  great  knowledge  of 
the  proprieties,  he  may  have  thought  the  con- 
duct of  his  younger  son  the  more  filial  of  the 
two.  Such  was  the  history  of  the  farm- 
house between  the  years  '56  and  '82. 

One  wet  April  day,  the  sixth  of  the  month, 
in  the  year  '82,  R.  Rand  went  grimly  else- 
where— where,  his  neighbors  had  little 
doubt.  With  true  New  England  caution  we 


156  Sons  of  R.   Rand 

will  say  that  he  went  to  the  cemetery,  the 
little  grass-grown  cemetery  of  Salem,  with 
its  meagre  memorials  and  absurd,  pathetic 
epitaphs.  The  minister  preached  a  funeral 
sermon,  out  of  deference  to  his  deacon,  in 
which  he  said  nothing  whatever  about  R. 
Rand,  deceased;  and  R.  Rand,  sheriff  and 
deacon,  reigned  in  his  stead. 

Follow  certain  documents  and  one  state- 
ment of  fact : 

Document  i. 

Codicil  to  the  Will  of  R.  Rand. 

The  Will  shall  stand  as  above,  to  wit,  my  son, 
Robert  Rand,  sole  legatee,  failing  the  following  con- 
dition :  namely,  I  bequeath  all  my  property  as  above 
mentioned,  with  the  exception  of  this  house  and 
farm,  to  my  son,  Thomas  Rand,  provided,  that  with- 
in three  months  of  the  present  date  he  returns  and 
mends  with  his  own  hands  the  front  window,  third 
from  the  north,  previously  broken  by  him. 

(Signed)  R.  RAND. 

Statement  of  fact.     On  the  morning  of 
the  day  following  the  funeral  the  "condition" 


Sons  of  R.   Rand  157 

appeared  in  singularly  problematical  shape, 
the  broken  window,  third  from  the  north, 
having  been  in  fact  promptly  replaced  by  the 
hands  of  Deacon  Rand  himself.  The  new 
pane  stared  defiantly  across  the  lake,  west- 
ward. 

Document  2. 

LEADVILLE,  CAL.,  May  15. 

DEAR  BOB  :  I  hear  the  old  man  is  gone.  Saw  it  in 
a  paper.  I  reckon  maybe  I  didn't  treat  him  any 
squarer  than  he  did  me.  I'll  go  halves  on  a  bang-up 
good  monument,  anyhow.  Can  we  settle  affairs 
without  my  coming  East?  How  are  you,  Bob? 

TOM. 

Document  j. 

SALEM,  May  29. 

DEAR  BROTHER:  The  conditions  of  our  father's 
will  are  such,  I  am  compelled  to  inform  you,  as  to 
result  in  leaving  the  property  wholly  to  me.  My 
duty  to  a  large  and  growing  family  gives  me  no 
choice  but  to  accept  it  as  it  stands,  and  I  trust  and 
have  no  doubt  that  you  will  regard  that  result  with 
fortitude.  I  remain  yours, 

ROBERT  RAND. 


158  Sons  of  R.   Rand 

Document  4. 

LEADVILLE,  June  9. 
A.  L.  Moore. 

DEAR  SIR:  I  have  your  name  as  a  lawyer  in  Wim- 
berton.  Think  likely  there  isn't  any  other.  If  you 
did  not  draw  up  the  will  of  R.  Rand,  Salem,  can 
you  forward  this  letter  to  the  man  who  did?  If 
you  did,  will  you  tell  me  what  in  thunder  it  was? 
Yours,  THOMAS  RAND. 

Document  5. 

WIMBERTON,  June  18. 
Thomas  Rand. 

DEAR  SIR:  I  did  draw  your  father's  will  and  en- 
close copy  of  the  same,  with  its  codicil,  which  may 
truly  be  called  remarkable.  I  think  it  right  to  add, 
that  the  window  in  question  has  been  mended  by 
your  brother,  with  evident  purpose.  Your  letter 
comes  opportunely,  my  efforts  to  find  you  having 
been  heretofore  unsuccessful.  I  will  add  further, 
that  I  think  the  case  actionable,  to  say  the  least.  In 
case  you  should  see  fit  to  contest,  your  immediate  re- 
turn is  of  course  necessary.  Very  truly  yours, 
A.  L.  MOORE, 

Attorney-at-Law. 


Sons  of  R.  Rand  159 

Document  6.     Despatch. 

NEW  YORK,  July  5. 
To  Robert  Rand,  Salem. 
Will  be  at  Valley  Station  to-morrow.    Meet  me 

or  not. 

T.  RAND. 

The  deacon  was  a  tall  meagre  man  with  a 
goatee  that  seemed  to  accentuate  him,  to  hint 
by  its  mere  straightness  at  sharp  decision,  an 
unwavering  line  of  rectitude. 

He  drove  westward  in  his  buckboard  that 
hot  summer  afternoon,  the  6th  of  July.  The 
yellow  road  was  empty  before  him  all  the 
length  of  the  lake,  except  for  the  butterflies 
bobbing  around  in  the  sunshine.  His  lips 
looked  even  more  secretive  than  usual :  a 
discouraging  man  to  see,  if  one  were  to  come 
to  him  in  a  companionable  mood  desiring 
comments. 

Opposite  the  spring  he  drew  up,  hearing 
the  sound  of  a  hand-organ  under  the  trees. 
The  tall  man  with  a  clipped  mustache  sat 
up  deliberately  and  looked  at  him.  The 


160  Sons  of  R.   Rand 

leathery  ape  ceased  his  funereal  capers  and 
also  looked  at  him;  then  retreated  behind 
the  spring.  Pietro  gazed  back  and  forth 
between  the  deacon  and  the  ape,  dismissed 
his  professional  smile,  and  followed  the  ape. 
The  tall  man  pulled  his  legs  under  him  and 
got  up. 

"I  reckon  it's  Bob,"  he  said.  "It's  free 
quarters,  Bob.  Entrez.  Come  in.  Have 
a  drink." 

The  deacon's  embarrassment,  if  he  had 
any,  only  showed  itself  in  an  extra  stiffening 
of  the  back. 

"The  train — I  did  not  suppose — I  was  go- 
ing to  meet  you." 

"Just  so.     I  came  by  way  of  Wimberton." 

The  younger  brother  stretched  himself 
again  beside  the  spring  and  drew  his  hat 
over  his  eyes.  The  elder  stood  up  straight 
and  not  altogether  unimpressive  in  front  of 
it.  Pietro  in  the  rear  of  the  spring  reflected 
at  this  point  that  he  and  the  ape  could  con- 
duct a  livelier  conversation  if  it  were  left  to 


Sons  of  R.  Rand  161 

them.  Pietro  could  not  imagine  a  conver- 
sation in  which  it  was  not  desirable  to  be 
lively.  The  silence  was  long  and,  Pietro 
thought,  not  pleasant. 

"Bob,"  said  the  apparent  sleeper  at  last, 
"ever  hear  of  the  prodigal  son  ?" 

The  deacon  frowned  sharply,  but  said 
nothing.  The  other  lifted  the  edge  of  his 
hat  brim. 

"Never  heard  of  him?  Oh — have!  Then 
I  won't  tell  about  him.  Too  long.  That 
elder  brother,  now,  he  had  good  points ; — no 
doubt  of  it,  eh?" 

"I  confess  I  don't  see  your  object — " 

"Don't?  Well,  I  was  just  saying  he  had 
good  points.  I  suppose  he  and  the  prodigal 
had  an  average  good  time  together,  knockin' 
around,  stubbin'  their  toes,  fishin'  maybe, 
gettin'  licked  at  inconvenient  times,  hookin' 
apples  most  anytime.  That  sort  of  thing. 
Just  so.  He  had  something  of  an  argument. 
Now,  the  prodigal  had  no  end  of  fun,  and 
the  elder  brother  stayed  at  home  and 


1 62  Sons  of  R.   Rand 

chopped  wood;  understood  himself  to  be 
cultivating  the  old  man.  I  take  it  he  didn't 
have  a  very  soft  job  of  it?" — lifting  his  hat 
brim  once  more. 

The  deacon  said  nothing,  but  observed  the 
hat  brim. 

"Now  I  think  of  it,  maybe  strenuous  so- 
briety wasn't  a  thing  he  naturally  liked  any 
more  than  the  prodigal  did.  I've  a  notion 
there  was  more  family  likeness  between  'em 
than  other  folks  thought.  What  might  be 
your  idea?" 

The  deacon  still  stood  rigidly  with  his 
hands  clasped  behind  him. 

"I  would  rather,"  he  said,  "you  would 
explain  yourself  without  parable.  You  re- 
ceived my  letter.  It  referred  to  our  fa- 
ther's will.  I  have  received  a  telegram 
which  I  take  to  be  threatening." 

The  other  sat  up  and  pulled  a  large  satchel 
around  from  behind  him. 

"You're  a  man  of  business,  Bob,"  he  said 
cheerfully.  "I  like  you,  Bob.  That's  so. 


Sons  of  R.  Rand  163 

That  will — I've  got  it  in  my  pocket.  Now, 
Bob,  I  take  it  you've  got  some  cards,  else 
you're  putting  up  a  creditable  bluff.  I  play 
this  here  Will,  Codicil  attached.  You  play, 
— window  already  mended;  time  expired 
at  twelve  o'clock  to-night.  Good  cards, 
Bob — first-rate.  I  play  here" — opening  the 
satchel — "two  panes  of  glass — allowin'  for 
accidents — putty,  et  cetera,  proposing  to 
bust  that  window  again.  Good  cards,  Bob. 
How  are  you  coming  on  ?" 

The  deacon's  sallow  cheeks  flushed  and 
his  eyes  glittered.  Something  came  into  his 
face  which  suggested  the  family  likeness. 
He  drew  a  paper  from  his  inner  coat  pocket, 
bent  forward  stiffly  and  laid  it  on  the  grass. 

"Sheriff's  warrant,"  he  said,  "for — hem — 
covering  possible  trespassing  on  my  prem- 
ises; good  for  twenty- four  hours'  detention 
—hem." 

"Good,"  said  his  brother  briskly.  "I 
admire  you,  Bob.  I'll  be  blessed  if  I  don't. 
I  play  again."  He  drew  a  revolver  and 


164  Sons  of  R.   Rand 

placed  it  on  top  of  the  glass.  "Six-shooter. 
Good  for  two  hours'  stand-off." 

"Hem,"  said  the  deacon.  "Warrant  will 
be  enlarged  to  cover  the  carrying  of  con- 
cealed weapons.  Being  myself  the  sheriff  of 
this  town,  it  is — hem — permissible  for  me." 
He  placed  a  revolver  on  top  of  the  warrant. 

"Bob,"  said  his  brother,  in  huge  delight, 
"I'm  proud  of  you.  But — I  judge  you  ain't 
on  to  the  practical  drop.  Stand  back  there!" 

The  deacon  looked  into  the  muzzle  of  the 
steady  revolver  covering  him,  and  retreated 
a  step,  breathing  hard.  Tom  Rand  sprang 
to  his  feet,  and  the  two  faced  each  other,  the 
deacon  looking  as  dangerous  a  man  as  the 
Westerner. 

Suddenly,  the  wheezy  hand-organ  beyond 
the  spring  began,  seemingly  trying  to  play 
two  tunes  at  once,  with  Pietro  turning  the 
crank  as  desperately  as  if  the  muzzle  of  the 
revolver  were  pointed  at  him. 

"Hi,  you  monk!  Dance!"  cried  Pietro; 
and  the  leathery  ape  footed  it  solemnly.  The 


Sons  of  R.   Rand  165 

perspiration  poured  down  Pietro's  face. 
Over  the  faces  of  the  two  stern  men  front- 
ing each  other  a  smile  came  and  broadened 
slowly,  first  over  the  younger' s,  then  over 
the  deacon's. 

The  deacon's  smile  died  out  first.  He  sat 
down  on  a  rock,  hid  his  face  and  groaned. 

"I'm  an  evil-minded  man,"  he  said;  "I'm 
beaten." 

The  other  cocked  his  head  on  one  side  and 
listened.  "Know  what  that  tune  is,  Bob  ?  I 
don't." 

He  sat  down  in  the  old  place  again,  took 
up  the  panes  of  glass  and  the  copy  of  the 
will,  hesitated,  and  put  them  down. 

"I  don't  reckon  you're  beaten,  Bob.  You 
ain't  got  to  the  end  of  your  hand  yet.  Got 
any  children,  Bob?  Yes;  said  you  had." 

"Five." 

"Call  it  a  draw,  Bob;  I'll  go  you  halves, 
counting  in  the  monument." 

But  the  deacon  only  muttered  to  himself : 
"I'm  an  evil-minded  man." 


1 66  Sons  of  R.  Rand 

Tom  Rand  meditatively  wrapped  the  two 
documents  around  the  revolvers. 

"Here,  Dago,  you  drop  'em  in  the 
spring!"  which  Pietro  did,  perspiring  freely. 

"Shake  all  that.     Come  along." 

The  two  walked  slowly  toward  the  yellow 
road.  Pietro  raised  his  voice  despairingly. 
"No  cent!  Notanicka!" 

"That's  so,"  said  Tom,  pausing.  "Five, 
by  thunder!  Come  along,  Dago.  It's  free 
quarters.  Entrez.  Take  a  seat." 

The  breeze  was  blowing  up  over  Elbow 
Lake,  and  the  butterflies  bobbed  about  in  the 
sunshine,  as  they  drove  along  the  yellow 
road.  Pietro  sat  at  the  back  of  the  buck- 
board,  the  leathery  ape  on  his  knee  and  a 
smile  on  his  face,  broad,  non-professional, 
and  consisting  largely  of  front  teeth. 


Conlon 

CONLON,  the  strong,  lay  sick  unto 
death  with  fever.  The  Water  Com- 
missioners sent  champagne  to  express  their 
sympathy.  It  was  an  unforced  impulse  of 
feeling. 

But  Conlon  knew  nothing  of  it.  His  lips 
were  white,  his  cheeks  sunken;  his  eyes 
glared  and  wandered;  he  muttered,  and 
clutched  with  his  big  fingers  at  nothing 
visible. 

The  doctor  worked  all  day  to  force  a  per- 
spiration. At  six  o'clock  he  said :  "I'm  done. 
Send  for  the  priest." 

When  Kelly  and  Simon  Harding  came, 
Father  Ryan  and  the  doctor  were  going 
down  the  steps. 

"  'Tis  a  solemn  duty  ye  have,  Kelly,"  said 


1 68  Conlon 

the  priest,  "to  watch  the  last  moments  of  a 
dying  man,  now  made  ready  for  his  end." 

"Ah,  not  Conlon !  He'll  not  give  up,  not 
him,"  cried  Kelly,  "the  shtrong  man  wid  the 
will  in  him!" 

"An'  what's  the  sthrength  of  man  in  the 
hands  of  his  Creathor  ?"  said  the  priest,  turn- 
ing to  Harding,  oratorically. 

"I  don'  know,"  said  Harding,  calmly. 
"Do  you?" 

"Tis  naught!" 

Kelly  murmured  submissively. 

"Kind  of  monarchical  institution,  ain't  it, 
what  Conlon's  run  up  against?"  Harding 
remarked.  "Give  him  a  fair  show  in  a 
caucus,  an'  he'd  win,  sure." 

"He'll  die  if  he  don't  sweat,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, wiping  his  forehead.  "It's  hot  enough." 

Conlon  lay  muttering  and  glaring  at  the 
ceiling.  The  big  knuckles  of  his  hands  stood 
out  like  rope-knots.  His  wife  nodded  to 
Kelly  and  Harding,  and  went  out.  She  was 
a  good-looking  woman,  large,  massive,  mus- 


Conlon  169 

cular.  Kelly  looked  after  her,  rubbing  his 
short  nose  and  blinking  his  watery  eyes. 
He  was  small,  with  stooping  shoulders,  affec- 
tionate eyes,  wavering  knees.  He  had  fol- 
lowed Conlon,  the  strong,  and  served  him 
many  years.  Admiration  of  Conlon  was  a 
strenuous  business  in  which  to  be  engaged. 

"Ah !"  he  said,  "his  wife  ten  year,  an'  me 
his  inchimate  friend." 

It  was  ten  by  the  clock.  The  subsiding 
noise  of  the  city  came  up  over  housetops 
and  vacant  lots.  The  windows  of  the  sick- 
room looked  off  the  verge  of  a  bluff ;  one  saw 
the  lights  of  the  little  city  below,  the  lights 
of  the  stars  above,  and  the  hot  black  night 
between. 

Kelly  and  Harding  sat  down  by  a  win- 
dow, facing  each  other.  The  lamplight  was 
dim.  A  screen  shaded  it  from  the  bed, 
where  Conlon  muttered  and  cried  out  faintly, 
intermittently,  as  though  in  conversation 
with  some  one  who  was  present  only  to  him- 
self. His  voice  was  like  the  ghost  or  shadow 


170  Conlon 

of  a  voice,  not  a  whisper,  but  strained  of 
all  resonance.  One  might  fancy  him  stand- 
ing on  the  bank  of  the  deadly  river  and  talk- 
ing across  to  some  one  beyond  the  fog,  and 
fancy  that  the  voices  would  so  creep  through 
the  fog  stealthily,  not  leaping  distances 
like  earthly  sounds,  but  struggling  slowly 
through  nameless  obstruction. 

Kelly  rubbed  his  hands  before  the  fire. 

"I  was  his  inchimate  friend." 

Harding  said :  "Are  you  going  to  talk  like 
a  blanked  idiot  all  night,  or  leave  off  maybe 
about  twelve  ?" 

"I  know  ye  for  a  hard  man,  too,  Simmy," 
said  Kelly,  pathetically ;  "an'  'tis  the  nathur 
of  men,  for  an  Irishman  is  betther  for  blow- 
in'  off  his  shteam,  be  it  the  wrath  or  the 
sorrow  of  him,  an'  the  Yankee  is  betther  for 
bottlin'  it  up." 

"Uses  it  for  driving  his  engine  mostly." 

"So.    But  Conlon—" 

"Conlon,"  said  Harding  slowly,  "that's  so. 
He  had  steam  to  drive  with,  and  steam  to 


Conlon  171 

blow  with,  and  plenty  left  over  to  toot  his 
whistle  and  scald  his  fingers  and  ache  in  his 
belly.  Expanding  that  there  figure,  he  car- 
ried suction  after  him  like  the  i :  40  express, 
he  did." 

"  Tis  thrue."  Kelly  leaned  forward  and 
lowered  his  voice.  "I  mind  me  when  I  first 
saw  him  I  hadn't  seen  him  before,  unless  so 
be  when  he  was  puttin'  the  wather-main 
through  the  sand-hills  up  the  river  an'  bossin' 
a  gang  o'  men  with  a  fog-horn  voice  till  they 
didn't  own  their  souls,  an'  they  didn't  have 
any,  what's  more,  the  dirty  Polocks.  But 
he  come  into  me  shop  one  day,  an'  did  I 
want  the  job  o'  plumbin'  the  court-house? 

"  'Have  ye  the  court-house  in  your  pock- 
et?' says  I,  jokin'. 

"  'I  have,'  says  he,  onexpected,  'an'  any 
plumbin'  that's  done  for  the  court-house  is 
done  in  the  prisint  risidence  of  the  same.' 

"An'  I  looks  up,  an'  'O  me  God!'  I  says 
to  meself,  '  'tis  a  man !'  wid  the  black  eye- 
brows of  him,  an'  the  shoulders  an'  the  legs 


172  Conlon 

of  him.  An'  he  took  me  into  the  shwale  of 
his  wake  from  that  day  to  this.  But  I  niver 
thought  to  see  him  die." 

"That's  so.  You  been  his  heeler  straight 
through.  I  don't  know  but  I  like  your  saying 
so.  But  I  don't  see  the  how.  Why,  look  here ; 
when  I  bid  for  the  old  water  contract  he 
comes  and  offers  to  sell  it  to  me,  sort  of 
personal  asset.  I  don't  know  how.  By  the 
unbroke  faces  of  the  other  Water  Commis- 
sioners he  didn't  use  his  pile-driving  fist  to 
persuade  'em,  and  what  I  paid  him  was  no 
more'n  comfortable  for  himself.  How'd  he 
fetch  it  ?  How'd  he  do  those  things  ?  Why, 
look  here,  Kelly,  ain't  he  bullied  you  ?  Ain't 
you  done  dirty  jobs  for  him,  and  small 
thanks?" 

"I  have  that." 

Kelly's  hands  trembled.  He  was  bowed 
down  and  thoughtful,  but  not  angry. 

"Suppose  I  ask  you  what  for?" 

"Suppose  ye  do.  Suppose  I  don'  know. 
Maybe  he  was  born  to  be  king  over  me. 


Conlon  173 

Maybe  he  wasn't.  But  I  know  he  was  a  mas- 
therful  man,  an'  he's  dyin'  here,  an'  me 
blood's  sour  an'  me  bones  sad  wid  thinkin' 
of  it.  Don'  throuble  me,  Simmy." 

Harding  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
stared  at  the  ceiling,  where  the  lamp  made 
a  nebulous  circle  of  light. 

"Why,  that's  so,"  he  said  at  last,  in  con- 
clusion of  some  unmentioned  train  of 
thought.  "Why,  I  got  a  pup  at  home,  and 
his  affection  ain't  measured  by  the  bones 
he's  had,  nor  the  licks  he's  had,  not  either 
of  'em." 

Kelly  was  deep  in  a  reverie. 

"Nor  it  ain't  measured  by  my  vir- 
tues. Look  here,  now;  I  don'  see  what  his 
measure  is." 

"Hey?"    Kelly  roused  himself. 

"Oh,  I  was  just  thinking." 

Harding  thought  he  had  known  other 
men  who  had  had  in  some  degree  a  magnetic 
power  that  seemed  to  consist  in  mere  stormy 
energy  of  initiative.  They  were  like  strong 


174  Conlon 

drink  to  weaker  men.  It  was  more  physical 
than  mental.  Conlon  was  to  Kelly  a  stimu- 
lant, then  an  appetite.  And  Conlon  was  a 
bad  lot.  Fellows  that  had  heeled  for  him 
were  mostly  either  wrecked  or  dead  now. 
Why,  there  was  a  chap  named  Patterson 
that  used  to  be  decent  till  he  struck  Conlon, 
when  he  went  pretty  low ;  and  Nora  Reimer 
drowned  herself  on  account  of  Patter- 
son, when  he  got  himself  shot  in  a  row 
at  some  shanty  up  the  railroad.  The  last 
had  seemed  a  good  enough  riddance.  But 
Nora  went  off  her  head  and  jumped  in  the 
new  reservoir.  Harding  remembered  it  the 
more  from  being  one  of  the  Water  Company. 
They  had  had  to  empty  the  reservoir,  which 
was  expensive.  And  there  were  others.  A 
black,  blustering  sort  of  beast,  Conlon.  He 
had  more  steam  than  was  natural.  Harding 
wondered  vaguely  at  Kelly,  who  was  spelling 
out  the  doctor's  directions  from  a  piece  of 
paper. 

"A  powdher  an'  five  dhrops  from  the  short 


Conlon  175 

bottle.  'Tis  no  tin-course  dinner  wid  the 
champagne  an'  entries  he's  givin'  Conlon  the 
night.  Hey?  A  powdher  an'  five  dhrops 
from  the  short  bottle." 

Harding' s  mind  wandered  on  among  mem- 
ories of  the  little  city  below,  an  intricate, 
irregular  history,  full  of  incidents,  stories 
that  were  never  finished  or  dribbled  off  any- 
where, black  spots  that  he  knew  of  in  white 
lives,  white  spots  in  dark  lives.  He  did  not 
happen  to  know  any  white  spots  on  Conlon. 

"Course  if  a  man  ain't  in  politics  for  his 
health  he  ain't  in  it  for  the  health  of  the 
community,  either,  and  that's  all  right.  And 
if  he  opens  the  morning  by  clumping  Mrs. 
Conlon  on  the  head,  why,  she  clumps  him 
back  more  or  less,  and  that's  all  right." 
Then,  if  he  went  down-town  and  lied  here 
and  there  ingeniously  in  the  way  of  business, 
and  came  home  at  night  pretty  drunk,  but  no 
more  than  was  popular  with  his  constituency, 
why,  Conlon's  life  was  some  cluttered,  but 
never  dull.  Still,  Harding's  own  ways  being 


176  Conlon 

quieter  and  less  cluttered,  he  felt  that  if  Con- 
Ion  were  going  off  naturally  now,  it  was  not, 
on  the  whole,  a  bad  idea.  It  would  conduce 
to  quietness.  It  would  perhaps  be  a  pity 
if  anything  interfered. 

The  clock  in  a  distant  steeple  struck 
twelve,  a  dull,  unechoing  sound. 

"Simmy,"  said  Kelly,  pointing  with  his 
thumb,  "what  do  he  be  sayin',  talkin' — 
talkin'  like  one  end  of  a  tiliphone?" 

They  both  turned  toward  the  bed  and  lis- 
tened. 

"Telephone !  Likely  there's  a  party  at  the 
other  end,  then.  Where's  the  other  end  ?" 

"I  don'  know,"  whispered  Kelly.  "But  I 
have  this  in  me  head,  for  ye  know,  when  the 
priest  has  done  his  last,  'tis  sure  he's 
dhropped  his  man  at  the  front  door  of  wher- 
ever he's  goin',  wid  a  letther  of  inthroduc- 
tion  in  his  hatband.  An'  while  the  man 
was  waitin'  for  the  same  to  be  read  an'  him 
certified  a  thrue  corpse,  if  he  had  a  kettleful 
of  boilin'  impatience  in  himself  like  Tom 


Conlon  1 77 

Cordon,  wouldn't  he  be  passin'  the  time  o' 
day  through  the  keyhole  wid  his  friends  be- 
yant?" 

"  'Tain't  a  telephone,  then  ?  It's  a  key- 
hole, hey?" 

"Tiliphone  or  keyhole,  he'd  be  talkin' 
through  it,  Conlon  would,  do  ye  mind  ?" 

Harding  looked  with  some  interest.  Con- 
Ion  muttered,  and  stopped,  and  muttered 
again.  Harding  rose  and  walked  to  the  bed. 
Kelly  followed  tremulously. 

"Listen,  will  ye?"  said  Kelly,  suddenly 
leaning  down. 

"I  don'  know,"  said  Harding,  with  an  in- 
stinct of  hesitation.  "I  don'  know  as  it's  a 
square  game.  Maybe  he's  talkin'  of  things 
that  ain't  healthy  to  mention.  Maybe  he's 
plugged  somebody  some  time,  or  broke  a 
bank — ain't  any  more'n  likely.  What  of 
it?" 

"Listen,  will  ye?" 

"Don'  squat  on  a  man  when  he's  down, 
Kelly." 


178  Conlon 

"'Sh!" 

"Hold  Tom's  hand.  Wait  for  Tom,"  bab- 
bled the  ghostly  voice,  a  thin,  distant  sound. 

"What'd  he  say?  What'd  he  say?" 
Kelly  was  white  and  trembling. 

Harding  stood  up  and  rubbed  his  chin 
reflectively.  He  did  not  seem  to  himself  to 
make  it  out.  He  brought  a  chair,  sat  down, 
and  leaned  close  to  Conlon  to  study  the 
matter. 

"What's  the  heart-scald,  mother?"  babbled 
Conlon.  "Where'd  ye  get  it  from?  Me! 
Wirra!" 

"  'Tis  spheakin'  to  ghosteses  he  is,  Simmy, 
ye  take  me  worrd." 

"Come  off!  He's  harking  back  when  he 
was  a  kid." 

Kelly  shook  his  head  solemnly. 

"He's  spheakin'  to  ghosteses." 

"What's  that,  mother?  Arm!  I'm  sick, 
mother.  What  for?  I  don'  see.  Where'm 
I  goin'?" 

"You  got  me,"  muttered  Harding.  "I 
don'  know." 


Conlon  179 

"Tom'll  be  good.  It's  main  dark.  Hold 
Tom's  hand." 

Kelly  was  on  his  knees,  saying  prayers  at 
terrific  speed. 

"Hear  to  him!"  he  stopped  to  whisper. 
"Ghosteses !  Ora  pro  nobis — " 

"Tom  ain't  afraid.    Naw,  he  ain't  afraid." 

Harding  went  back  to  his  window.  The 
air  was  heavy  and  motionless,  the  stars  a  lit- 
tle dim.  He  could  see  the  dark  line  of  the 
river  with  an  occasional  glint  upon  it,  and 
the  outline  of  the  hills  beyond. 

The  little  city  had  drawn  a  robe  of  inno- 
cent obscurity  over  it.  Only  a  malicious 
sparkle  gleamed  here  and  there.  He  thought 
he  knew  that  city  inside  and  out,  from  end 
to  end.  He  had  lived  in  it,  dealt  with  it, 
loved  it,  cheated  it,  helped  to  build  it,  shared 
its  fortunes.  Who  knew  it  better  than  he  ? 
But  every  now  and  then  it  surprised  with 
some  hidden  detail  or  some  impulse  of  civic 
emotion.  And  Kelly  and  Conlon,  surely  he 
knew  them,  as  men  may  know  men.  But  he 


180  Conlon 

never  had  thought  to  see  Conlon  as  to-night. 
It  was  odd.  But  there  was  some  fact  in  the 
social  constitution,  in  human  nature,  at  the 
basis  of  all  the  outward  oddities  of  each. 

"Maybe  when  a  man's  gettin'  down  to  his 
reckonin'  it's  needful  to  show  up  what  he's 
got  at  the  bottom.  Then  he  begins  to  peel 
off  layers  of  himself  like  an  onion,  and 
'less  there  ain't  anything  to  him  but  layers, 
by  and  by  he  comes  to  something  that  re- 
sembles a  sort  of  aboriginal  boy,  which  is 
mostly  askin'  questions  and  bein'  sur- 
prised." 

Maybe  there  was  more  boyishness  in  Con- 
Ion  than  in  most  men.  Come  to  think  of  it, 
there  was.  Conlon's  leadership  was  ever  of 
the  maybe-you-think-I-can't-lick-you  order; 
and  men  followed  him,  admitting  that  he 
could,  in  admiration  and  simplicity.  You 
might  see  the  same  thing  in  the  public- 
school  yard.  Maybe  that  was  the  reason. 
The  sins  of  Conlon  were  not  sophisticated. 

The  low,  irregular  murmur  from  the  bed, 


Conlon  181 

the  heavy  heat  of  the  night,  made  Harding 
drowsy.  Kelly  repeating  the  formula  of  his 
prayers,  a  kind  of  incantation  against  ghosts, 
Conlon  with  his  gaunt  face  in  the  shadow 
and  his  big  hands  on  the  sheet  clutching  at 
nothing  visible,  both  faded  away,  and  Har- 
ding fell  asleep. 

He  woke  with  a  start.  Kelly  was  dancing 
about  the  bed  idiotically. 

"He's  shweatin'!"  he  gabbled.  "He's 
shweatin' !  He'll  be  well — Conlon." 

It  made  Harding  think  of  the  "pup,"  and 
how  he  would  dance  about  him,  when  he 
went  home,  in  the  crude  expression  of  joy. 
Conlon's  face  was  damp.  He  muttered  no 
more.  They  piled  the  blankets  on  him  till 
the  perspiration  stood  out  in  drops.  Conlon 
breathed  softly  and  slept.  Kelly  babbled 
gently,  "Conlon!  Conlon!" 

Harding  went  back  to  the  window  and 
rubbed  his  eyes  sleepily. 

"Kind  of  too  bad,  after  all  that  trouble 
to  get  him  peeled." 


1 82  Conlon 

The  morning  was  breaking,  solemn,  noise- 
less, with  lifted  banners  and  wide  pagean- 
tries, over  river  and  city. 

Harding  yawned. 

"It's  one  on  Father  Ryan,  anyway.  That's 
a  good  thing.  Blamed  old  windbag !" 

Kelly  murmured  ecstatically,  "Conlon  will 
get  well — Conlon !" 


St.  Catherine's 

ST.  CATHERINE'S  was  the  life  work 
of  an  old  priest,  who  is  remembered 
now  and  presently  will  be  forgotten.  There 
are  gargoyles  over  the  entrance  aside,  with 
their  mouths  open  to  express  astonish- 
ment. They  spout  rain  water  at  times,  but 
you  need  not  get  under  them ;  and  there  are 
towers,  and  buttresses,  a  great  clock,  a  gilded 
cross,  and  roofs  that  go  dimly  heavenward. 

St.  Catherine's  is  new.  The  neighborhood 
squats  around  it  in  different  pathetic  atti- 
tudes. Opposite  is  the  saloon  of  the  wooden- 
legged  man;  then  the  three  groceries  whose 
cabbages  all  look  unpleasant;  the  parochial 
school  with  the  green  lattice;  and  all  those 
little  wooden  houses — where  lives,  for  in- 
stance, the  dressmaker  who  funnily  calls  her- 


184  St.  Catherine's 

self  "Modiste."  Beyond  the  street  the  land 
drops  down  to  the  freight  yards. 

But  Father  Connell  died  about  the  time 
they  finished  the  east  oriel,  and  Father  Harra 
reigned  over  the  house  of  the  old  man's 
dreams — a  red-faced  man,  a  high  feeder, 
who  looked  as  new  as  the  church  and  said  the 
virtues  of  Father  Connell  were  reducing  his 
flesh.  That  would  seem  to  be  no  harm ;  but 
Father  Harra  meant  it  humorously.  Father 
Connell  had  stumped  about  too  much  among 
the  workmen  in  the  cold  and  wet,  else  there 
had  been  no  need  of  his  dying  at  eighty-eight. 
His  tall  black  hat  became  a  relic  that  hung  in 
the  tiring  room,  and  he  cackled  no  more  in 
his  thin  voice  the  noble  Latin  of  the  service. 
Peace  to  his  soul !  The  last  order  he  wrote 
related  to  the  position  of  the  Christ  figure 
and  the  inscription,  "Come  unto  me,  weary 
and  heavy-laden :  I  will  give  you  rest."  But 
the  figure  was  not  in  place  till  the  mid-De- 
cember following. 

And  it  was  the  day  before  Christmas  that 


St.  Catherine's  185 

Father  Harra  had  a  fine  service,  with  his  boy 
choir  and  all ;  and  Chubby  Locke  sang  a  solo, 
"Angels  ever  bright  and  fair,"  that  was  all 
dripping  with  tears,  so  to  speak.  Chubby 
Locke  was  an  imp  too.  All  around  the  altar 
the  candles  were  lighted,  and  there  hung  a 
cluster  of  gas  jets  over  the  head  of  the  Christ 
figure  on  the  edge  of  the  south  transept.  So 
fine  it  was  that  Father  Harra  came  out  of  his 
room  into  the  aisle  (when  the  people  were 
gone,  saying  how  fine  it  was,  and  the  sex- 
ton was  putting  out  the  gas  here  and  there) , 
to  walk  up  and  down  and  think  about  it, 
especially  how  he  should  keep  up  with  the 
virtues  of  Father  Connell.  Duskier  and 
duskier  it  grew,  as  the  candles  went  out  clus- 
ter by  cluster  till  only  those  in  the  south  tran- 
sept were  left;  and  Dennis,  coming  there, 
stopped  and  grunted. 

"What !"  said  Father  Harra. 

"It's  asleep  he  is,"  said  the  sexton.  "It's 
a  b'y,  yer  riverence." 

"Why,  so  it  is!     He  went  to  sleep  during 


1 86  St.  Catherine's 

the  service.  H'm — well — they  often  do  that, 
Dennis." 

"Anyways  he  don't  belong  here,"  said 
Dennis. 

"Think  so?  I  don't  know  about  that. 
Wait  a  bit.  I  don't  know  about  that,  Den- 
nis." 

The  boy  lay  curled  up  on  the  seat — 
a  newsboy,  by  the  papers  that  had  slipped 
from  his  arms.  But  he  did  not  look  busi- 
nesslike, and  he  did  not  suggest  the  advan- 
tages of  being  poor  in  America.  One  does 
not  become  a  capitalist  or  president  by  going 
to  church  and  to  sleep  in  the  best  of  business 
hours,  from  four  to  six,  when  the  streets  are 
stirring  with  men  on  their  way  to  dinners, 
cigars  and  evening  papers.  The  steps  of  St. 
Catherine's  are  not  a  bad  place  to  sell  papers 
after  Vespers,  and  one  might  as  well  go  in,  to 
be  sure,  and  be  warm  while  the  service  lasts ; 
only,  as  I  said,  if  one  falls  asleep,  one  does 
not  become  a  capitalist  or  president  imme- 
diately. Father  Harra  considered,  and  Den- 
nis waited  respectfully. 


St.  Catherine's  187 

"It's  making  plans  I  am  against  your  natu- 
ral rest,  Dennis.  I'm  that  inconsiderate  of 
your  feelings  to  think  of  keeping  St.  Cathe- 
rine's open  this  night.  And  why?  Look  ye, 
Dennis.  St.  Catherine's  is  getting  itself  con- 
secrated these  days,  being  new,  and  of  course 
—But  I  tell  ye,  Dennis,  it's  a  straight  church 
doctrine  that  the  blessings  of  the  poor  are  a 
good  assistance  to  the  holy  wather." 

"An'  me  wid  children  of  me  own  to  be 
missin'  their  father  this  Christmas  Eve !"  be- 
gan Dennis  indignantly. 

"Who  wouldn't  mind,  the  little  villains,  if 
their  father  had  another  dollar  of  Christmas 
morning  to  buy  'em  presents." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  the  sexton,  "yer  riverence 
is  that  persuadin'." 

"It's  plain  enough  for  ye  to  see  yourself, 
Dennis,  though  thick-headed  somewhat. 
There  you  are:  'Come  unto  me,  weary  and 
heavy-laden ;'  and  here  he  is.  Plain  enough. 
And  who  are  the  weary  and  heavy-laden  in 
this  city?" 


St.  Catherine's 


"Yer  riverence  will  be  meanin'  every- 
body," chuckled  Dennis. 

"Think  so?  Rich  and  poor  and  all? 
Stuff!  I  don't  believe  it.  Not  to-night. 
It'll  be  the  outcasts,  I'm  thinking,  Dennis. 
Come  on." 

"An'  the  b'y,  yer  riverence?" 

"The  what?  Oh,  why,  yes,  yes.  He's  all 
right.  I  don't  see  anything  the  matter  with 
him.  He's  come." 

It  was  better  weather  to  go  with  the  wind 
than  against  it,  for  the  snow  drove  in  gritty 
particles,  and  the  sidewalks  made  themselves 
disagreeable  and  apt  to  slip  out  from  under  a 
person.  Little  spurts  of  snow  danced  up  St. 
Catherine's  roofs  and  went  off  the  ridgepoles 
in  puffs.  It  ought  to  snow  on  Christmas 
Eve;  but  it  rightly  should  snow  with  better 
manners  and  not  be  so  cold.  The  groceries 
closed  early.  Freiburger,  the  saloon  man, 
looked  over  the  curtains  of  his  window. 

"I  don't  know  vat  for  Fater  Harra  tack  up 


St.  Catherine's  189 

dings  dis  time  by  his  kirch  door,  'Come — 
come  in  here.'  Himmel!  der  Irishman!" 

Father  Harra  turned  in  to  his  supper,  and 
thought  how  he  would  trouble  Father  Con- 
nell's  reputation  for  enterprise  and  what  a 
fine  bit  of  constructive  ability  himself  was 
possessed  of. 

The  great  central  door  of  St.  Catherine's 
stood  open,  so  that  the  drift  blew  in  and  piled 
in  windrows  on  the  cold  floor  of  the  vesti- 
bule. The  tall  front  of  the  church  went  up 
into  the  darkness,  pointing  to  no  visible  stars ; 
but  over  the  doors  two  gas  jets  flickered 
across  the  big  sign  they  use  for  fairs  at  the 
parochial  school.  "Come  in  here."  The  ves- 
tibule was  dark,  barring  another  gas  jet  over 
a  side  door,  with  another  sign,  "Come  in 
here ;"  and  within  the  great  church  was  dark 
as  well,  except  for  a  cluster  over  the  Christ 
figure.  That  was  all;  but  Father  Harra 
thought  it  a  neat  symbol,  looking  toward 
those  who  go  from  meagre  light  to  light 
through  the  darkness. 


190  St.  Catherine's 

Little  noises  were  in  the  church  all  night 
far  up  in  the  pitch  darkness  of  rafter  and 
buttress,  as  if  people  were  whispering  and 
crying  softly  to  one  another.  Now  and 
again,  too,  the  swing  door  would  open  and 
remain  so  for  a  moment,  suspicious,  hesitat- 
ing. But  what  they  did,  or  who  they  were 
that  opened  it,  could  hardly  be  told  in  the 
dusk  and  distance.  Dennis  went  to  sleep  in 
a  chair  by  the  chancel  rail,  and  did  not  care 
what  they  did  or  who  they  were,  granted 
they  kept  away  from  the  chancel. 

How  the  wind  blew! — and  the  snow 
tapped  impatiently  at  stained  windows  with 
a  multitude  of  little  ringers.  But  if  the 
noises  among  the  rafters  were  not  merely 
echoes  of  the  crying  and  calling  wind  with- 
out, if  any  presences  moved  and  whispered 
there,  and  looked  down  on  flat  floor  and 
straight  lines  of  pews,  they  must  have  seen 
the  Christ  figure,  with  welcoming  hands, 
dominant  by  reason  of  the  light  about  it ;  and, 
just  on  the  edge  of  the  circle  of  light,  shape- 


St.  Catherine's  191 

less  things  stretched  on  cushions  of  pews,  and 
motionless  or  stirring  uneasily.  Something 
now  came  dimly  up  the  aisle  from  the  swing 
door,  stopped  at  a  pew,  and  hesitated. 

"Git  out !"  growled  a  hoarse  voice.  "Dis 
my  bunk." 

The  intruder  gave  a  nervous  giggle. 

"Begawd!"  muttered  the  hoarse  voice. 
"It's  a  lady!" 

Another  voice  said  something  angrily. 

"Well,"  said  the  first,  "it  ain't  behavin' 
nice  to  come  into  me  boodwer." 

The  owner  of  the  giggle  had  slipped  away 
and  disappeared  in  a  distant  pew.  In  another 
pew  to  the  right  of  the  aisle  a  smaller  shadow 
whispered  to  another : 

"Jimmy,  that's  a  statoo  up  there." 

"Who?" 

"That.     I  bet  'e's  a  king." 

"Aw,  no  'e  ain't.  Kings  has  crowns  an' 
wallups  folks." 

"Gorry!    What  for?" 

"I  don'  know." 


192  St.  Catherine's 

The  other  sighed  plaintively.  "I  thought 
'e  might  be  a  king." 

The  rest  were  mainly  silent.  Some  one 
had  a  bad  cough.  Once  a  sleeper  rolled  from 
the  seat  and  fell  heavily  to  the  floor.  There 
was  an  oath  or  two,  a  smothered  laugh,  and 
the  distant  owner  of  the  giggle  used  it  ner- 
vously. The  last  was  an  uncanny  sound. 
The  wakened  sleeper  objected  to  it.  He  said 
he  would  "like  to  get  hold  of  her;"  and  then 
lay  down  cautiously  on  his  cushion. 

Architects  have  found  that  their  art  is  cun- 
ning to  play  tricks  with  them ;  whence  come 
whispering  galleries,  corners  of  echoes,  roofs 
that  crush  the  voice  of  the  speaker,  and  roofs 
that  enlarge  it.  Father  Connell  gave  no  or- 
ders to  shape  the  roofs  of  St.  Catherine's, 
that  on  stormy  nights  so  many  odd  noises 
might  congregate  there,  whispering,  calling, 
murmuring,  now  over  the  chancel,  now  the 
organ,  now  far  up  in  the  secret  high  places 
of  the  roof,  now  seeming  to  gather  in  confi- 
dence above  the  Christ  figure  and  the  circle 


St.  Catherine's  193 

of  sleepers ;  or,  if  one  vaguely  imagined  some 
inquisitively  errant  beings  moving  overhead, 
it  would  seem  that  newcomers  constantly  en- 
tered, to  whom  it  had  all  to  be  explained. 

But  against  that  eager  motion  in  the  dark- 
ness above  the  Christ  figure  below  was 
bright  in  his  long  garment,  and  quiet  and 
secure.  The  cluster  of  gas  jets  over  his 
head  made  light  but  a  little  distance  around, 
then  softened  the  dusk  for  another  distance, 
and  beyond  seemed  not  to  touch  the  darkness 
at  all.  The  dusk  was  a  debatable  space. 
The  sleepers  all  lay  in  the  debatable  space. 
They  may  have  sought  it  by  instinct ;  but  the 
more  one  looked  at  them  the  more  they 
seemed  like  dull,  half-animate  things,  over 
whom  the  light  and  the  darkness  made  their 
own  compromises  and  the  people  up  in  the 
roof  their  own  comments. 

The  clock  in  the  steeple  struck  the  hours; 
in  the  church  the  tremble  was  felt  more  than 
the  sound  was  heard.  The  chimes  each  hour 
started  their  message,  "Good  will  and 


194  St.  Catherine's 

peace;"  but  the  wind  went  after  it  and 
howled  it  down,  and  the  snow  did  not  cease 
its  petulance  at  the  windows. 

The  clock  in  the  steeple  struck  five.  The 
man  with  the  hoarse  voice  sat  up,  leaned  over 
the  back  of  the  seat  and  touched  his  neigh- 
bor, who  rose  noiselessly,  a  huge  fat  man 
and  unkempt. 

"Time  to  slope,"  whispered  the  first,  mo- 
tioning toward  the  chancel. 

The  other  followed  his  motion. 

"What's  up  there?" 

"You're  ignorance,  you  are.  That's  where 
they  gives  the  show.  There's  pickin's 
there." 

The  two  slipped  out  and  stole  up  the  aisle 
with  a  peculiar  noiseless  tread.  Even  Fat 
Bill's  step  could  not  be  heard  a  rod  away. 
The  aisle  entered  the  circle  of  light  before  the 
Christ  figure;  but  the  two  thieves  glided 
through  without  haste  and  without  looking 
up.  The  smaller,  in  front,  drew  up  at  the 


St.  Catherine's  195 

end  of  the  aisle,  and  Fat  Bill  ran  into  him. 
Dennis  sat  in  his  chair  against  the  chancel 
rail,  asleep. 

"Get  onto  his  whiskers,  Bill.  Mebbe  you'll 
have  to  stuff  them  whiskers  down  his 
throat." 

There  was  a  nervous  giggle  behind  them. 
Fat  Bill  shot  into  a  pew,  dragging  his  com- 
rade after  him,  and  crouched  down.  "It  ain't 
no  use,"  he  whispered,  shaking  the  other  an- 
grily. "Church  business  is  bad  luck.  I 
allus  said  so.  What's  for  them  blemed 
noises  all  night  ?  How'd  come  they  stick  that 
thing  up  there  with  the  gas  over  it?  What 
for'd  they  leave  the  doors  open,  an'  tell  ye  to 
come  in,  an'  keep  their  damn  devils  gigglin' 
around  ?  'Taint  straight.  I  won't  stand  it." 

"It's  only  a  woman,  Bill,"  said  the  other 
patiently. 

He  rose  on  his  knees  and  looked  over  the 
back  of  the  seat. 

"  'Tain't  straight.      I  won't  stand  it." 

"We  won't  fight,  Bill.  We'll  get  out,  if 
you  say  so." 


196  St.  Catherine's 

The  owner  of  the  giggle  was  sitting  up,  as 
they  glided  back,  Fat  Bill  leading. 

"I'll  smash  yer  face,"  the  smaller  man  said 
to  her. 

Bill  turned  and  grabbed  his  collar. 

"You  come  along." 

The  woman  stared  stupidly  after,  till  the 
swing  door  closed  behind  them.  Then  she 
put  on  her  hat,  decorated  with  too  many  dis- 
orderly flowers.  Most  of  the  sleepers  were 
wakened.  The  wind  outside  had  died  in  the 
night,  and  the  church  was  quite  still.  A  man 
in  a  dress  suit  and  overcoat  sat  up  in  a  pew 
beneath  a  window,  and  stared  about  him. 
His  silk  hat  lay  on  the  floor.  He  leaned  over 
the  back  of  the  seat  and  spoke  to  his  neigh- 
bor, a  tramp  in  checked  trousers. 

"How'd  I  g-get  here  ?"  he  asked  thickly. 

"Don'  know,  pardner,"  said  the  tramp 
cheerfully.  "Floated  in,  same  as  me?"  He 
caught  sight  of  the  white  tie  and  shirt  front. 
"Maybe  you'd  give  a  cove  a  shiner  to  steady 
ye  out.  They  don't  give  breakfasts  with 
lodgin's  here." 


St.   Catherine's  197 

The  woman  with  the  giggle  and  the 
broken-down  flowers  on  her  hat  went  out 
next ;  then  a  tall,  thin  man  with  a  beard  and 
a  cough ;  the  newsboy  with  his  papers  shuffled 
after,  his  shoes  being  too  large;  then  a  lame 
man — something  seemed  the  matter  with  his 
hip ;  and  a  decent-looking  woman,  who  wore 
a  faded  shawl  over  her  head  and  kept  it 
drawn  across  her  face — she  seemed  ashamed 
to  be  there,  as  if  it  did  not  appear  to  her  a 
respectable  place ;  last,  two  boys,  one  of  them 
small,  but  rather  stunted  than  very  young. 
He  said : 

"  'E  ain't  a  king,  is  'e,  Jimmy  ?  You  don' 
know  who  'e  is,  do  you,  Jimmy  ?" 

"Naw." 

"Say,  Jimmy,  it  was  warm,  warn't  it?" 
***** 

Dennis  came  down  the  aisle,  put  out  the 
gas,  and  began  to  brush  the  cushions.  The 
clock  struck  a  quarter  of  six,  and  Father 
Harra  came  in. 

"Christmas,  Dennis,  Christmas!     H'm — 


St.   Catherine's 


anybody  been  here?     What  did  they  think 
of  it?" 

Dennis  rubbed  his  nose  sheepishly. 

"They  wint  to  shleep,  sor,  an' — an'  thin 
they  wint  out." 

Father  Harra  looked  up  at  the  Christ  fig- 
ure and  stroked  his  red  chin. 

"I  fancied  they  might  see  the  point,"  he 
said  slowly.  "Well,  well,  I  hope  they  were 
warm." 

The  colored  lights  from  the  east  oriel  fell 
over  the  Christ  figure  and  gave  it  a  cheerful 
look ;  an<i  from  other  windows  blue  and  yel- 
low and  magical  deep-sea  tints  floated  in  the 
air,  as  if  those  who  had  whispered  unseen  in 
the  darkness  were  now  wandering  about, 
silent  but  curiously  visible. 

"Yer  riverince,"  said  Dennis,  "will  not  be 
forgettin'  me  dollar." 


The  Spiral  Stone 

THE  graveyard  on  the  brow  of  the  hill 
was  white  with  snow.  The  marbles 
were  white,  the  evergreens  black.  One  tall 
spiral  stone  stood  painfully  near  the  centre. 
The  little  brown  church  outside  the  gates 
turned  its  face  in  the  more  comfortable  di- 
rection of  the  village. 

Only  three  were  out  among  the  graves: 
"Ambrose  Chillingworth,  aetat  30,  1675;" 
"Margaret  Vane,  aetat  19,  1839;"  and  "Thy 
Little  One,  O  God,  aetat  2,"  from  the  Mercer 
Lot.  It  is  called  the  "Mercer  Lot,"  but  the 
Mercers  are  all  dead  or  gone  from  the  vil- 
lage. 

The  Little  One  trotted  around  busily,  put- 
ting his  tiny  finger  in  the  letterings  and  pat- 
ting the  faces  of  the  cherubs.  The  other  two 


2oo  The  Spiral  Stone 

sat  on  the  base  of  the  spiral,  which  twisted 
in  the  moonlight  over  them. 

"I  wonder  why  it  is?"  Margaret  said. 
"Most  of  them  never  come  out  at  all.  We 
and  the  Little  One  come  out  so  often.  You 
were  wise  and  learned.  I  knew  so  little. 
Will  you  tell  me?" 

"Learning  is  not  wisdom,"  Ambrose  an- 
swered. "But  of  this  matter  it  was  said  that 
our  containment  in  the  grave  depended  on 
the  spirit  in  which  we  departed.  I  made  cer- 
tain researches.  It  appeared  by  common  re- 
port that  only  those  came  out  whom  desper- 
ate sin  tormented,  or  labors  incomplete  and 
great  desire  at  the  point  of  death  made  rest- 
less. I  had  doubts  the  matter  were  more 
subtle,  the  reasons  of  it  reaching  out  dis- 
tantly." He  sighed  faintly,  following  with 
his  eyes,  tomb  by  tomb,  the  broad  white  path 
that  dropped  down  the  hillside  to  the  church. 
"I  desired  greatly  to  live." 

"I,  too.  Is  it  because  we  desired  it  so 
much,  then  ?  But  the  Little  One" — 


The  Spiral  Stone  201 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  said. 

The  Little  One  trotted  gravely  here  and 
there,  seeming  to  know  very  well  what  he 
was  about,  and  presently  came  to  the  spiral 
stone.  The  lettering  on  it  was  new,  and 
there  was  no  cherub.  He  dropped  down 
suddenly  on  the  snow,  with  a  faint  whimper. 
His  small  feet  came  out  from  under  his 
gown,  as  he  sat  upright,  gazing  at  the  letters 
with  round  troubled  eyes,  and  up  to  the  top 
of  the  monument  for  the  solution  of  some 
unstated  problem. 

"The  stone  is  but  newly  placed,"  said  Am- 
brose, "and  the  newcomer  would  seem  to  be 
of  those  who  rest  in  peace." 

They  went  and  sat  down  on  either  side  of 
him,  on  the  snow.  The  peculiar  cutting  of 
the  stone,  with  spirally  ascending  lines,  to- 
gether with  the  moon's  illusion,  gave  it  a 
semblance  of  motion.  Something  twisted 
and  climbed  continually,  and  vanished  con- 
tinually from  the  point.  But  the  base  was 
broad,  square,  and  heavily  lettered:  "John 
Mareschelli  Vane." 


2O2  The  Spiral  Stone 

"Vane?     That  was  thy  name,"  said  Am- 
brose. 


1890.     JET  AT  72. 
AN  EMINENT  CITIZEN,  A  PUBLIC  BENEFAC- 

TOR,, AND  WIDELY  ESTEEMED. 
FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  HIS  NATIVE  PLACE  RE- 

TURNED TO  LAY  HIS  DUST  THEREIN. 

THE  JUST  MADE  PERFECT. 

"It  would  seem  he  did  well,  and  rounded 
his  labors  to  a  goodly  end,  lying  down 
among  his  kindred  as  a  sheaf  that  is  gar- 
nered in  the  autumn.  He  was  fortunate." 

And  Margaret  spoke,  in  the  thin,  emotion- 
less voice  which  those  who  are  long  in  the 
graveyard  use:  "He  was  my  brother." 

"Thy  brother?"  said  Ambrose. 

The  Little  One  looked  up  and  down  the 
spiral  with  wide  eyes.  The  other  two 
looked  past  it  into  the  deep  white  valley, 
where  the  river,  covered  with  ice  and  snow, 
was  marked  only  by  the  lines  of  skeleton 
willows  and  poplars.  A  night  wind,  listless 


The  Spiral  Stone  203 

but  continual,  stirred  the  evergreens.  The 
moon  swung  low  over  the  opposite  hills,  and 
for  a  moment  slipped  behind  a  cloud. 

"Says  it  not  so,  Tor  the  Love  of  his  Na- 
tive Place'  ?"  murmured  Ambrose. 

And  as  the  moon  came  out,  there  leaned 
against  the  pedestal,  pointing  with  a  finger 
at  the  epitaph,  one  that  seemed  an  old  man, 
with  bowed  shoulders  and  keen,  restless  face, 
but  in  his  manner  cowed  and  weary. 

"It  is  a  lie,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  hated  it, 
Margaret.  I  came  because  Ellen  Mercer 
called  me." 

"Ellen  isn't  buried  here." 

"Not  here!" 

"Not  here." 

"Was  it  you,  then,  Margaret  ?     Why  ?" 

"I  didn't  call  you." 

"Who  then?"  he  shrieked.  "Who  called 
me?" 

The  night  wind  moved  on  monotonously, 
and  the  moonlight  was  undisturbed,  like 
glassy  water. 


204  The  Spiral  Stone 

"When  I  came  away,"  she  said,  "I 
thought  you  would  marry  her.  You  didn't, 
then?  But  why  should  she  call  you ?" 

"I  left  the  village  suddenly!"  he  cried. 
"I  grew  to  dread,  and  then  to  hate  it.  I 
buried  myself  from  the  knowledge  of  it,  and 
the  memory  of  it  was  my  enemy.  I  wished 
for  a  distant  death,  and  these  fifty  years  have 
heard  the  summons  to  come  and  lay  my 
bones  in  this  graveyard,  I  thought  it  was 
Ellen.  You,  sir,  wear  an  antique  dress; 
you  have  been  long  in  this  strange  existence. 
Can  you  tell  who  called  me?  If  not  Ellen, 
where  is  Ellen?"  He  wrung  his  hands,  and 
rocked  to  and  fro. 

"The  mystery  is  with  the  dead  as  with 
the  living,"  said  Ambrose.  "The  shadows 
of  the  future  and  the  past  come  among  us. 
We  look  in  their  eyes,  and  understand  them 
not.  Now  and  again  there  is  a  call  even 
here,  and  the  grave  is  henceforth  untenanted 
of  its  spirit.  Here,  too,  we  know  a  necessity 


The  Spiral  Stone  205 

which  binds  us,  which  speaks  not  with  audi- 
ble voice  and  will  not  be  questioned." 

"But  tell  me,"  moaned  the  other,  "does 
the  weight  of  sin  depend  upon  its  conse- 
quences? Then  what  weight  do  I  bear?  I 
do  not  know  whether  it  was  ruin  or  death,  or 
a  thing  gone  by  and  forgotten.  Is  there  no 
answer  here  to  this  ?" 

"Death  is  but  a  step  in  the  process  of  life," 
answered  Ambrose.  "I  know  not  if  any  are 
ruined  or  anything  forgotten.  Look  up,  to 
the  order  of  the  stars,  an  handwriting  on  the 
wall  of  the  firmament.  But  who  hath  read 
it  ?  Mark  this  night  wind,  a  still  small  voice. 
But  what  speaketh  it  ?  The  earth  is  clothed 
in  white  garments  as  a  bride.  What  mean 
the  ceremonials  of  the  seasons?  The  will 
from  without  is  only  known  as  it  is  mani- 
fested. Nor  does  it  manifest  where  the  con- 
sequences of  the  deed  end  or  its  causes  be- 
gan. Have  they  any  end  or  a  beginning? 
I  cannot  answer  you." 

"Who  called  me,  Margaret?" 


206  The  Spiral  Stone 

And  she  said  again  monotonously,  "I 
didn't  call  you." 

The  Little  One  sat  between  Ambrose  and 
Margaret,  chuckling  to  himself  and  gazing 
up  at  the  newcomer,  who  suddenly  bent  for- 
ward and  looked  into  his  eyes,  with  a  gasp. 

"What  is  this  ?"  he  whispered. 

"  Thy  Little  One,  O  God,  aetat  2,'  from 
the  Mercer  Lot,"  returned  Ambrose  gently. 
"He  is  very  quiet.  Art  not  neglecting  thy 
business,  Little  One?  The  lower  walks  are 
unvisited  to-night." 

"They  are  Ellen's  eyes!"  cried  the  other, 
moaning  and  rocking.  "Did  you  call  me? 
Were  you  mine?" 

"It  is  written,  Thy  Little  One,  O  God,'  " 
murmured  Ambrose. 

But  the  Little  One  only  curled  his  feet  up 
under  his  gown,  and  now  chuckled  content- 
edly. 


The  Musidora  Sonnet 

'  I  ^HE  clock  in  some  invisible  steeple 
<*•  struck  one.  The  great  snowflakes 
fell  thickly,  wavering  and  shrinking,  deli- 
cate, barren  seeds,  conscious  of  their  un- 
fruitfulness.  The  sputter  of  the  arc  lights 
seemed  explosive  to  the  muffled  silence  of  the 
street.  With  a  bright  corner  at  either  end, 
the  block  was  a  canon,  a  passage  in  a  nether 
world  of  lurking  ghosts,  where  a  frightened 
gaslight  trembled,  hesitated  midway.  And 
Noel  Endicott  conceived  suddenly,  between 
curb  and  curb,  a  sonnet,  to  be  entitled  "Dante 
in  Tenth  Street,"  the  appearance  of  it  occu- 
pying, in  black  letter,  a  half  page  in  the 
Monthly  Illustrated,  a  gloomy  pencilling 
above,  and  below  it  "Noel  Endicott."  The 
noiselessness  of  his  steps  enlarged  his  imag- 
ination. 


208       The  Musidora  Sonnet 

I  walked  in  loth  Street,  not  the  Florentine, 
With  ghosts  more  sad,  and  one  like  Beatrice 
Laid  on  my  lips  the  sanction  of  her  kiss. 
'Twas 

It  should  be  in  a  purgatorial  key,  in  effect 
something  cold,  white  and  spiritual,  portray- 
ing "her"  with  Dantesque  symbolism,  a  defi- 
nite being,  a  vision  with  a  name.  "  'Twas — " 
In  fact,  who  was  she? 

He  stopped.  Tenth  Street  was  worth  more 
than  a  sonnet's  confined  austerity.  It  should 
be  a  story.  Noel  was  one  who  beat  tragic 
conceptions  into  manuscript,  suffering  rejec- 
tion for  improbability.  Great  actions  thrilled 
him,  great  desires  and  despairs.  The  mas- 
sive villainies  of  Borgia  had  fallen  in  days 
when  art  was  strenuous.  Of  old,  men  threw 
a  world  away  for  a  passion,  an  ambition.  In- 
tense and  abundant  life — one  was  compelled 
now  to  spin  their  symbols  out  of  thin  air,  be 
rejected  for  improbability,  and  in  the  midst 
of  a  bold  conception,  in  a  snowstorm  on 
canoned  Tenth  Street,  be  hungry  and  smitten 
with  doubts  of  one's  landlady. 


The  Musidora  Sonnet       209 

Mrs.  Tibbett  had  been  sharp  that  morning 
relative  to  a  bill,  and  he  had  remonstrated  but 
too  rashly:  "Why  discuss  it,  Mrs.  Tibbett? 
It's  a  negative,  an  unfruitful  subject."  And 
she  had,  in  effect,  raved,  and  without  doubt 
now  had  locked  the  outer  door.  Her  temper, 
roused  at  one  o'clock,  would  be  hasty  in  ac- 
tion, final  in  result. 

He  stood  still  and  looked  about  him. 
Counting  two  half  blocks  as  one,  it  was  now 
one  block  to  Mrs.  Tibbett  and  that  ambushed 
tragedy. 

"In  his  last  novel,  "The  Sunless  Treasure" 
(to  his  own  mind  his  greatest),  young 
Humphrey  stands  but  a  moment  hesitating 
before  the  oaken  door,  believing  his  enemies 
to  be  behind  it  with  ready  daggers.  He  hesi- 
tates but  a  moment.  The  die  is  cast.  He 
enters.  His  enemies  are  not  there.  But 
Mrs.  Tibbett  seemed  different.  For  instance, 
she  would  be  there. 

The  house  frontage  of  this,  like  the  house 
frontage  of  the  fatal  next  block,  was  various, 


2io       The  Musidora  Sonnet 

of  brick,  brownstone  or  dingy  white  surface, 
with  doorways  at  the  top  of  high  steps,  door- 
ways on  the  ground  level,  doorways  flush 
with  the  front,  or  sunken  in  pits.  Not  a  light 
in  any  window,  not  a  battlement  that  on  its 
restless  front  bore  a  star,  but  each  house 
stood  grim  as  Child  Roland's  squat  tower. 
The  incessant  snowflakes  fell  past,  no  motion 
or  method  of  any  Byzantine  palace  intrigue 
so  silken,  so  noiseless,  so  mysterious  in  begin- 
nings and  results.  All  these  locked  caskets 
wedged  together  contained  problems  and  so- 
lutions, to  which  Bassanio's  was  a  simple 
chance  of  three  with  a  pointed  hint.  Noel 
decided  that  Tenth  Street  was  too  large  for 
a  story.  It  was  a  literature.  One  must  se- 
lect. 

Meanwhile  the  snow  fell  and  lay  thickly, 
and  there  was  no  doubt  that  by  persistent 
standing  in  the  snow  one's  feet  became  wet. 
He  stepped  into  the  nearest  doorway,  which 
was  on  the  level  of  the  street,  one  of  three 
doorways  alike,  all  low,  arched  and  deep. 


The  Musidora  Sonnet       2 1 1 

They  would  be  less  noticeable  in  the  daytime 
than  in  the  night,  when  their  cavernous  gap- 
ing and  exact  repetition  seemed  either  omi- 
nous or  grotesque,  according  to  the  observer. 
The  outer  door  was  open.  He  felt  his  way 
in  beyond  the  drift  to  the  hard  footing  of  the 
vestibule,  kicked  his  shoes  free  of  snow  and 
brushed  his  beard. 

The  heroes  of  novels  were  sometimes  hun- 
gry and  houseless,  but  it  seemed  to  Noel  that 
they  seldom  or  never  faced  a  problem  such  as 
Mrs.  Tibbett  presented.  Desperate  fortunes 
should  be  carried  on  the  point  of  one's  sword, 
but  with  Mrs.  Tibbett  the  point  was  not  to 
provoke  her.  She  was  incongruous.  She 
must  be  thrust  aside,  put  out  of  the  plot.  He 
made  a  gesture  dismissing  Mrs.  Tibbett.  His 
hand  in  the  darkness  struck  the  jamb  of  the 
inner  door,  which  swung  back  with  a  click 
of  the  half-caught  latch.  His  heart  thumped, 
and  he  peered  into  the  darkness,  where  a  thin 
yellow  pencil  of  light  stretched  level  from  a 
keyhole  at  the  farther  end  of  a  long  hall. 


2 1 2       The  Musidora  Sonnet 

Dismissing  Mrs.  Tibbett,  it  was  a  position 
of  dramatic  advantage  to  stand  in  so  dark 
and  deep  an  arched  entrance,  between  the 
silence  and  incessant  motion  of  the  snow  on 
the  one  hand,  and  the  yellow  pencil  of  light, 
pointing  significantly  to  something  un- 
known, some  crisis  of  fortune.  He  felt  him- 
self in  a  tale  that  had  both  force  and  form, 
responsible  for  its  progress. 

He  stepped  in,  closed  the  half  door  behind 
him  softly,  and  crept  through  the  hall.  The 
thin  line  of  light  barred  the  way,  and  seemed 
to  say,  "Here  is  the  place.  Be  bold,  ready- 
minded,  full  of  subtlety  and  resource." 
There  was  no  sound  within  that  he  could 
hear,  and  no  sound  without,  except  his  own 
oppressed  breathing  and  pulses  throbbing  in 
his  ears. 

Faint  heart  never  won  anything,  and  as 
for  luck,  it  belonged  to  those  who  adventured 
with  various  chances,  and  of  the  blind  paths 
that  led  away  from  their  feet  into  the  future, 
chose  one,  and  another,  and  so  kept  on  good 


The  Musidora  Sonnet       213 

terms  with  possibility.  If  one  but  cried 
saucily,  "Open  this  odd  little  box,  you  three 
gray  women !  And  this,  and  this ;"  the  gray 
Fates  smiled  indulgently,  showing  a  latent 
motherliness.  How  many  destinies  had  been 
decided  by  the  opening  and  shutting  of  a 
door,  which  to  better  or  worse,  never  opened 
again  for  retreat  ?  A  touch  on  this  door  and 
Mrs.  Tibbett  might  vanish  from  the  story 
forever,  to  the  benefit  of  the  story. 

He  lifted  his  hand,  having  in  mind  to  tap 
lightly,  with  tact  and  insinuation,  but  struck 
the  door,  in  fact,  nervously,  with  a  bang  that 
echoed  in  the  hall.  Some  one  spoke  within. 
He  opened  and  made  entry  in  a  prepared 
manner,  which  gave  way  to  merely  blinking 
wonder. 

It  was  a  large  dining-room,  brightly  lit  by 
a  chandelier,  warm  from  a  glowing  grate, 
sumptuous  with  pictures  and  hangings,  on 
the  table  a  glitter  of  glass  and  silver,  with 
meat,  cakes  and  wine. 

On  the  farther  side  of  the  table  stood  a 


214       The  Musidora  Sonnet 

woman  in  a  black  evening  dress,  with  jewels 
on  her  hair  and  bosom.  She  seemed  to  have 
just  risen,  and  grasped  the  back  of  her  chair 
with  one  hand,  while  the  other  held  open  a 
book  on  the  table.  The  length  of  her  white 
arm  was  in  relief  against  her  black  dress. 

Noel's  artistic  slouch  hat,  now  taken  off 
with  uncertain  hand,  showed  wavy  brown 
hair  over  eyes  not  at  all  threatening,  a  beard 
pointed,  somewhat  profuse,  a  face  interest- 
ingly featured  and  astonished.  No  mental 
preparation  to  meet  whatever  came,  of  Ara- 
bic or  mediaeval  incident,  availed  him.  He 
felt  dumb,  futile,  blinking.  The  lady's  sur- 
prise, the  startled  fear  on  her  face,  was 
hardly  seen  before  it  changed  to  relief,  as  if 
the  apparition  of  Noel,  compared  with  some 
foreboding  of  her  own,  were  a  mild  event. 
She  half  smiled  when  he  began : — 

"I  am  an  intruder,  madam,"  and  stopped 
with  that  embarrassed  platitude.  "I  passed 
your  first  door  by  accident,  and  your  second 
by  impulse." 


The  Musidora  Sonnet       215 

"That  doesn't  explain  why  you  stay." 

"May  I  stay  to  explain  ?" 

When  two  have  exchanged  remarks  that 
touch  the  borders  of  wit,  they  have  passed  a 
mental  introduction.  To  each  the  mind  of 
the  other  is  a  possible  shade  and  bubbling 
spring  by  the  dusty  road  of  conversation. 
Noel  felt  the  occasion.  He  bowed  with  a 
side  sweep  of  his  hat. 

"Madam,  I  am  a  writer  of  poems,  essays, 
stories.  If  you  ask,  What  do  I  write  in 
poems,  essays,  stories,  I  answer,  My  percep- 
tion of  things.  If  you  ask,  In  what  form 
would  I  cast  my  present  perceptions  of 
things,  I  say,  Without  doubt  a  poem." 

"You  are  able  to  carry  both  sides  of  a  con- 
versation. I  have  not  asked  any  of  these." 

"You  have  asked  why  I  stay.  I  am  ex- 
plaining." 

The  lady's  attitude  relaxed  its  stiffness  by 
a  shade,  her  half  smile  became  a  degree  more 
balmy. 

"I  think  you  must  be  a  successful  writer." 


216       The  Musidora  Sonnet 

"You  touch  the  point,"  he  said  slowly.  "I 
am  not.  I  am  hungry  and  probably  house- 
less. And  worse  than  that,  I  find  hunger  and 
houselessness  are  sordid,  tame.  The  taste 
of  them  in  the  mouth  is  flat,  like  stale  beer.  It 
is  not  like  the  bitter  tang  of  a  new  experience, 
but  like  something  the  world  shows  its  weari- 
ness of  in  me." 

The  amused  smile  vanished  in  large-eyed 
surprise,  and  something  more  than  surprise, 
as  if  his  words  gave  her  some  intimate,  per- 
sonal information. 

"You  say  strange  things  in  a  very  strange 
way.  And  you  came  in  by  an  accident  ?" 

"And  an  impulse?" 

"I  don't  understand.  But  you  must  sit 
down,  and  I  can  find  you  more  to  eat,  if  this 
isn't  enough." 

Noel  could  not  have  explained  the  strange- 
ness of  his  language,  if  it  was  strange,  fur- 
ther than  that  he  felt  the  need  of  saying 
something  in  order  to  find  an  opportunity  of 
saying  something  to  the  point,  and  so  dis- 


The  Musidora  Sonnet       217 

played  whatever  came  to  his  mind  as  likely 
to  arrest  attention.  It  was  a  critical  lesson 
in  vagabondage,  as  familiar  there  as  hunger 
and  houselessness.  He  attacked  the  cold 
meat,  cakes  and  fruit  with  fervor,  and  the 
claret  in  the  decanter.  But  what  should  be 
the  next  step  in  the  pursuit  of  fortune  ?  At 
this  point  should  there  not  come  some  revela- 
tion? 

The  lady  did  not  seem  to  think  so,  but  sat 
looking  now  at  Noel  and  now  at  her  own 
white  hands  in  her  lap.  That  she  should  have 
youth  and  beauty  seemed  to  Noel  as  na- 
tive to  the  issue  as  her  jewels,  the  heavy  cur- 
tains, the  silver  and  glass.  As  for  youth, 
she  might  be  twenty,  twenty-one,  two.  All 
such  ages,  he  observed  to  himself  with  a  men- 
tal flourish,  were  one  in  beauty.  It  was  not 
a  rosy  loveliness  like  the  claret  in  the  decan- 
ter, nor  plump  like  the  fruit  in  the  silver 
basket,  but  dark-eyed,  white  and  slender, 
with  black  hair  drawn  across  the  temples ;  of 
a  fragile  delicacy  like  the  snowflakes,  the 


218       The  Musidora  Sonnet 

frost  flower  of  the  century's  culture,  the  sym- 
bol of  its  ultimate  luxury.  The  rich  room 
was  her  setting.  She  was  the  center  and 
reason  for  it,  and  the  yellow  point  of  a  dia- 
mond over  her  heart,  glittering,  but  with  a 
certain  mellowness,  was  still  more  central, 
intimate,  interpretative,  symbolic  of  all  de- 
sirable things.  He  began  to  see  the  story  in 
it,  to  glow  with  the  idea. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "I  am  a  writer  of 
whose  importance  I  have  not  as  yet  been  able 
to  persuade  the  public.  The  way  I  should 
naturally  have  gone  to-night  seemed  to  me 
something  to  avoid.  I  took  another,  which 
brought  me  here.  The  charm  of  existence — " 
She  seemed  curiously  attentive.  "The 
charm  of  existence  is  the  unforeseen,  and 
of  all  things  our  moods  are  the  most  un- 
foreseen. One's  plans  are  not  always  and 
altogether  futile.  If  you  propose  to  have 
salad  for  lunch,  and  see  your  way  to  it,  it  is 
not  so  improbable  that  you  will  have  salad 
for  lunch.  But  if  you  prefigure  how  it  will 


The  Musidora  Sonnet       219 

all  seem  to  you  at  lunch,  you  are  never  quite 
right.  Man  proposes  and  God  disposes.  I 
add  that  there  is  a  third  and  final  disposal, 
namely,  what  man  is  to  think  of  the  disposi- 
tion after  it  is  made.  I  hope,  since  you  pro- 
posed or  prefigured  to-night,  perhaps  as  I 
did,  something  different  from  this — this  dis- 
position"— he  lifted  his  glass  of  claret  be- 
tween him  and  the  light — "that  your  dispo- 
sition what  to  think  of  it  is,  perhaps,  some- 
thing like  mine." 

The  lady  was  leaning  forward  with  parted 
lips,  listening  intently,  absorbed  in  his  words. 
For  the  life  of  him  Noel  could  not  see  why 
she  should  be  absorbed  in  his  words,  but  the 
fact  filled  him  with  happy  pride. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said  quickly.  "You  speak 
so  well — " 

Noel  filled  in  her  pause  of  hesitation. 

"That  means  that  my  wisdom  may  be  all 
in  my  mouth." 

""No,  indeed !  I  mean  you  must  have  ex- 
perience. Will  you  tell  me,  is  it  so  dreadful 


22O       The  Musidora  Sonnet 

not  to  have  money?  People  say  different 
things." 

"They  do."  He  felt  elevated,  borne  along 
on  a  wave  of  ornamental  expression.  "It  is 
their  salvation.  Their  common  proverbs 
contradict  each  other.  A  man  looks  after 
his  pence  and  trusts  one  proverb  that  the 
pounds  will  look  after  themselves,  till  pres- 
ently he  is  called  penny  wise  and  pound  fool- 
ish, and  brought  up  by  another.  And  con- 
sider how  less  noticeable  life  would  be  with- 
out its  jostle  of  opinion,  its  conflicting  lines 
of  wisdom,  its  following  of  one  truth  to  meet 
with  another  going  a  different  way.  Give 
me  for  finest  companionship  some  half  truth, 
some  ironic  veracity." 

She  shook  her  head.  It  came  to  him  with 
a  shock  that  it  was  not  his  ornamental  ex- 
pression which  interested  her,  but  only  as  it 
might  bear  on  something  in  her  own  mind 
more  simple,  direct  and  serious,  something 
not  yet  disclosed.  "In  fact,"  he  thought,  "she 


The  Musidora  Sonnet       221 

is  right.  One  must  get  on  with  the  plot." 
It  was  a  grievous  literary  fault  to  break  con- 
tinuity, to  be  led  away  from  the  issue  by 
niceties  of  expression.  The  proper  issue  of 
a  plot  was  simple,  direct,  serious,  drawn  from 
the  motive  which  began  it.  Why  did  she  sit 
here  with  her  jewels,  her  white  arms  and 
black  dress  these  weird,  still  hours  of  the 
night?  Propriety  hinted  his  withdrawal, 
but  one  must  resist  the  commonplace. 

"The  answer  to  the  question  does  not  sat- 
isfy you.  But  do  you  not  see  that  I  only  en- 
larged on  your  own  answer?  People  say 
different  things  because  they  are  different. 
The  answer  depends  on  temperaments,  more 
narrowly  on  moods ;  on  tenses,  too,  whether 
it  is  present  poverty  and  houselessness  or 
past  or  future.  And  so  it  has  to  be  answered 
particularly,  and  you  haven't  made  me  able 
to  answer  it  particularly  to  you.  And  then 
one  wouldn't  imagine  it  could  be  a  question 
particular  to  you." 


222       The  Musidora  Sonnet 

"You  are  very  clever,"  she  murmured,  half 
smiling  again.  "Are  you  not  too  clever  for 
the  purpose?  You  say  so  many  things." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Noel  plaintively. 
"The  story  has  come  to  a  standstill.  It  has 
all  run  out  into  diction." 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  loud  noise  in 
the  hall. 

The  smile,  which  began  hopefully,  grew 
old  while  he  watched  it,  and  withered  away. 
The  noise  that  echoed  in  the  hall  was  of  a 
banging  door,  then  of  laden,  dragging  steps. 
The  hall  door  was  thrown  open,  and  two 
snowy  hackmen  entered,  holding  up  between 
them  a  man  wearing  a  tall  hat 

"He's  some  loaded,  ma'am,"  said  one  of 
them  cheerfully.  "I  ain't  seen  him  so 
chucked  in  six  months." 

They  dropped  him  in  a  chair,  from  which, 
after  looking  about  him  with  half-open, 
glassy  eyes,  and  closing  them  again,  he  slid 
limply  to  the  floor.  The  hackman  regarded 
that  choice  of  position  with  sympathy. 


The  Musidora  Sonnet       223 

"Wants  to  rest  his  load,  he  does,"  and  backed 
out  of  the  door  with  his  companion. 

"It  goes  on  the  bill.  Ain't  seen  him  so 
chucked  in  six  months." 

The  lady  had  not  moved  from  her  chair, 
but  had  sat  white  and  still,  looking  down  into 
her  lap.  She  gave  a  hard  little  laugh. 

"Isn't  it  nice  he's  so  'chucked'  ?  He  would 
have  acted  dreadfully."  She  was  leaning 
on  the  table  now,  her  dark  eyes  reading  him 
intently.  The  man  on  the  floor  snorted  and 
gurgled  in  his  sleep. 

"I  couldn't  kill  anybody,"  she  said. 
"Could  you?" 

Noel  shook  his  head. 

"It's  so  funny,"  she  went  on  in  a  soft, 
speculative  way,  "one  can't  do  it.  I'm  afraid 
to  go  away  and  be  alone  and  poor.  I  wish 
he  would  die." 

"It  wouldn't  work  out  that  way,"  said 
Noel,  struggling  with  his  wits.  "He's  too 
healthy." 

It  seemed  to  him  immediately  that  the 


224       The  Musidora  Sonnet 

comment  was  not  the  right  one.  It  was  not 
even  an  impersonal  fact  to  himself,  an  ad- 
vantage merely  to  the  plot,  that  the  sleeper 
was  unable  to  object  to  him  and  discard  him 
from  it,  as  he  had  resolved  to  discard  Mrs. 
Tibbett,  but  with  such  brutal  energy  as  the 
sleeper's  face  indicated.  For  it  repelled  not 
so  much  by  its  present  relaxed  degradation 
as  by  its  power,  its  solidity  of  flesh,  its  intol- 
erant self-assertion,  the  physical  vigor  of  the 
short  bull  neck,  bulky  shoulders,  heavy  mus- 
tache, heavy  cheeks  and  jaw,  bluish  with  the 
shaving  of  a  thick  growth.  He  was  dressed, 
barring  his  damp  dishevelment,  like  a  well- 
groomed  clubman. 

But  the  lady  was  looking  Noel  in  the  eyes, 
and  her  own  seemed  strangely  large,  but  as  if 
covering  a  spiritual  rather  than  a  physical 
space,  settled  in  melancholy,  full  of  clouds, 
moving  lights  and  dusky  distances. 

"I  was  waiting  for  him  because  he  ordered 
me.  I'm  so  afraid  of  him,"  she  said,  shrink- 


The  Musidora  Sonnet       225 

ing  with  the  words.  "He  likes  me  to  be  here 
and  afraid  of  him." 

"Tell  me  what  I  am  to  do?"  he  said 
eagerly. 

"I  suppose  you  are  not  to  do  anything." 

Noel  caught  the  thread  of  his  fluency.  He 
drew  a  ten-cent  piece  from  his  pocket,  tossed 
it  on  the  table,  gestured  toward  it  with  one 
hand  and  swung  the  other  over  the  back  of 
his  chair  with  an  air  of  polished  recklessness. 

"But  your  case  seems  desperate  to  you.  Is 
it  more  than  mine?  You  have  followed  this 
thing  about  to  'the  end  of  the  passage/  and 
there  is  my  last  coin.  My  luck  might  change 
to-morrow.  Who  knows?  Perhaps  to- 
night. I  would  take  it  without  question  and 
full  of  hope.  Will  you  experiment  with  for- 
tune and — and  me?" 

The  dark  eyes  neither  consented  nor  re- 
fused. They  looked  at  him  gravely. 

"It  is  a  black,  cold  night.  The  snow  is 
thick  in  the  air  and  deep  on  the  street.  Put 


226       The  Musidora  Sonnet 

it  so  at  the  worst,  but  fortune  and  wit  will  go 
far." 

"Your  wit  goes  farther  than  your  fortune, 
doesn't  it  ?"  she  said,  smiling. 

"I  don't  conceal." 

"You  don't  conceal  either  of  them,  do  you  ? 
You  spread  them  both  out,"  and  she  laughed 
a  pleasant  little  ripple  of  sound. 

Noel  rose  with  distinction  and  bent  toward 
her  across  the  table. 

"My  fortune  is  this  ten-cent  piece.  As 
you  see,  on  the  front  of  it  is  stamped  a 
throned  woman." 

"Oh,  how  clever."  She  laughed,  and  Noel 
flushed  with  the  applause. 

"Shall  we  trust  fortune  and  spin  the  coin? 
Heads,  the  throned  woman,  I  shall  presently 
worship  you,  an  earthly  divinity.  Tails,  a 
barren  wreath  and  the  denomination  of  a 
money  value,  meaning  I  take  my  fortunes 
away,  and  you,"  pointing  in  turn  to  the 
sleeper  and  the  jewels,  "put  up  with  yours  as 
you  can." 


The  Musidora  Sonnet       227 

She  seemed  to  shiver  as  he  pointed.  "No," 
she  said,  "I  couldn't  do  that.  A  woman  never 
likes  to  spin  a  coin  seriously." 

"Will  you  go,  then?" 

The  sleeper  grunted  and  turned  over.  She 
turned  pale,  put  her  hand  to  her  throat,  said 
hurriedly,  "Wait  here,"  and  left  the  room, 
lifting  and  drawing  her  skirt  aside  as  she 
passed  the  sleeper. 

She  opened  the  door  at  last  and  came 
again,  wrapped  in  a  fur  mantle,  carrying  a 
travelling  case,  and  stood  looking  down  at 
the  sleeper  as  if  with  some  struggle  of  the 
soul,  some  reluctant  surrender. 

They  went  out,  shutting  the  door  behind 
them. 

The  snow  was  falling  still  on  Tenth  Street, 
out  of  the  crowding  night.  He  held  her  hand 
on  his  arm  close  to  him.  She  glided  beside 
him  noiselessly. 

The  express  office  was  at  the  corner,  a  little 
dingy,  gas-lit  room. 

"Carriage?       Get  it  in  a  minute,"  said 


228       The   Musidora  Sonnet 

the  sleepy  clerk.  "It's  just  round  the  cor- 
ner." 

They  stood  together  by  a  window,  half 
opaque  with  dust.  Her  face  was  turned 
away,  and  he  watched  the  slant  of  her  white 
cheek. 

"You  will  have  so  much  to  tell  me,"  he 
whispered  at  last. 

"I  am  really  very  grateful.  You  helped 
me  to  resolve." 

"Your  carriage,  sir." 

The  electric  light  sputtered  over  them 
standing  on  the  curb. 

"But,"  she  said,  smiling  up  at  him,  "I 
have  nothing  to  tell  you.  There  is  nothing 
more.  It  ends  here.  Forgive  me.  It  is  my 
plot  and  it  wouldn't  work  out  your  way. 
There  are  too  many  conflicting  lines  of  wis- 
dom in  your  way.  My  life  lately  has  been 
what  you  would  call,  perhaps,  a  study  in 
realism,  and  you  want  me  to  be,  perhaps,  a 
symbolic  romance.  I  am  sure  you  would 


The  Musidora  Sonnet       229 

express  it  very  cleverly.  But  I  think  one 
lives  by  taking  resolutions  rather  than  by 
spinning  coins,  which  promise  either  a 
throned  woman,  or  a  wreath  and  the  denom- 
ination of  a  money  value.  One  turns  up  so 
much  that  is  none  of  these  things.  Men 
don't  treat  women  that  way.  I  married  to  be 
rich,  and  was  very  wretched,  and  perhaps 
your  fame,  when  it  comes,  will  be  as  sad  to 
you.  Perhaps  the  trouble  lies  in  what  you 
called  'the  third  disposal.'  But  I  did  not  like 
being  a  study  in  realism.  I  should  not  mind 
being  something  symbolic,  if  I  might  prove 
my  gratitude" — she  took  her  hand  from  his 
arm,  put  one  foot  on  the  step  and  laughed,  a 
pleasant  little  ripple  of  sound — "by  becom- 
ing literary  material."  The  door  shut  to, 
and  the  carriage  moved  away  into  the  storm 
with  a  muffled  roll  of  wheels. 

Noel  stared  after  it  blankly,  and  then 
looked  around  him.  It  was  half  a  block  now 
to  Mrs.  Tibbett.  He  walked  on  mechani- 


230       The  Musidora  Sonnet 

cally,  and  mounted  the  steps  by  habit.  The 
outer  door  was  not  locked.  A  touch  of  com- 
punction had  visited  Mrs.  Tibbett. 

He  crept  into  his  bed,  and  lay  noting  the 
growing  warmth  and  sense  of  sleep,  and 
wondering  whether  that  arched  doorway  was 
the  third  of  the  three  or  the  second.  Strictly 
speaking  he  seemed  to  have  gone  in  at  the 
middle  one  and  come  out  at  the  third,  or  was 
it  not  the  first  rather  than  the  middle  en- 
trance that  he  had  sheltered  in?  The  three 
arched  entrances  capered  and  contorted  be- 
fore him  in  the  dark,  piled  themselves  into 
the  portal  of  a  Moorish  palace,  twisted  them- 
selves in  a  kind  of  mystical  trinity  and  seal  of 
Solomon,  floated  apart  and  became  thin, 
filmy,  crescent  moons  over  a  frozen  sea.  He 
sat  up  in  bed  and  smote  the  coverlet. 

"I  don't  know  her  name !  She  never  told 
me!"  He  clutched  his  hair,  and  then  re- 
leased it  cautiously.  "It's  Musidora!  I 
forgot  that  sonnet !" 


The  Musidora  Sonnet       231 

'Twas  Musidora,  whom  the  mystic  nine 
Gave  to  my  soul  to  be  forever  mine, 
And,  as  through  shadows  manifold  of  Dis, 
Showed  in  her  eyes,  through  dusky  distances 
And  clouds,  the  moving  lights  about  their  shrine; 
Now  ever  on  my  soul  her  touch  shall  be 
As  on  the  cheek  are  touches  of  the  snow, 
Incessant,  cool,  and  gone;  so  guiding  me 
From  sorrow's  house  and  triple  portico. 
And  prone  recumbrance  of  brute  tyranny, 
In  a  strict  path  shall  teach  my  feet  to  go. 

The  clock  in  the  invisible  steeple  struck 
three. 


2d  Impression  of  "  One  of  the  most  delightful  novels  of  tie 
season  .  .  .  besides  being  a  novel  novel,  it  is  an  all-around 
good  one  healthy,  humorons,  clever,  simple,  and  attractive  in 

all  its  phases."— Brooklyn  Eagle. 


THE 
LIGHTNING  CONDUCTOR 

THE  STRANGE  ADVENTURES   OF  A  MOTOR   CAR 

EDITED  BY 

C.  N.  AND  A.  M.  WILLIAMSON 
izrno,  $1.50. 

"  Interesting  and  clever  .  .  .  it  will  find  a  warm  welcome. 
The  plot  is  wholly  new  and  decidedly  entertaining.  .  .  .  The 
situations  that  the  Englishman,  madly  in  love  with  his  employer, 
is  placed  in  are  most  humorous.  One  cannot  foresee  how  the 
plot  is  to  be  untangled,  but  the  way  in  which  this  is  done  is  quite 
the  most  clever  thing  in  the  book." — Springfield  Republican, 

"  Will  probably  produce  such  a  satisfactory  illusion  that  many 
may  be  able  to  accept  its  authenticity  without  question.  Pos- 
sibly it  is  at  least  '  founded  on  fact "...  lively  without  being 
flippant."  The  dialogue  is  sufficiently  suggestive  to  keep  the 
curiosity  well  up  to  the  scratch." — Times'  Saturday  Review, 

"Incidentally  there  are  some  delightful  descriptions  of  the 
famous  old  Chateaux  of  France,  and  many  places  out  of  the 
beaten  path  of  ordinary  travel.  The  little  romance,  which 
makes  much  of  the  fun  of  the  story,  comes  to  its  inevitable 
conclusion,  and  the  book  is  bright,  cheery  and  entertaining." — 
Watchman, 

"  Delightfully  amusing." — Providence  Journal. 

"  A  jollier  or  more  amusing  book  than  this  we  have  not  come 
across  this  season.  .  .  .  Bright,  chatty,  and  always  entertaining 
style.  .  .  .  One  of  the  delights  of  the  year.  It  ought  to  have 
enduring  fame." — Nashville  American. 

'•  Whoever  begins,  will  finish  it.  ...  A  pretty  and  pleasing 
love  story,  and  an  entrancing  story  of  travel  through  France 
and  Italy.  .  .  .  The  automobile  part,  with  one  or  two  slight 
lapses,  is  soundly  written  and  with  point." — Motor  World. 

"  They  have  no  end  of  adventures,  which,  are  set  forth  in  a 
sprightly,  vivacious  way,  which  makes  good  reading." — Detroit 
free  Press. 

HENRY    HOLT    &    CO. 


"  Clever  versified  and  prose  parodies  .  .  .  full  of  good  things."— 
Soston  Transcript. 

BORROWED   PLUMES 

By  OWEN  SEAMAN,  author  of  "  The  Battle  of  the  Bays" 
Rubricated  title,  gilt  top.     i6mo.     $1.25 

A  volume  of  twenty-two  parodies,  including  the  Elizabeths  of  the 
Letters  and  the  German  Garden,  "  John  Oliver  Hobbes,"  Ellen  Thor- 
neycroft  Fowler,  Hall  Caine,  Marie  Corelli,  "Mr.  Dooley,"  Henry 
Harland,  Hewlett,  Meredith,  Lubbock,  Henry  James,  Maeterlinck, 
G.  Bernard  Shaw,  Stephen  Phillips,  etc.,  etc. 

"He  delights  us  without  recalling  any  master  of  the  art  [parody] 
whatever.  If  we  think  of  Thackeray  or  Bret  Harte  in  perusing  this 
little  volume,  it  is  only  to  reflect  that  they  would,  in  all  probability, 
have  gladly  taken  him  into  their  company.  .  .  .  Why  he  could  not 
have  written  all  of  the  works  of  the  authors  he  parodies  it  is  difficult 
to  see,  for  he  seems  invariably  to  get  inside  of  them,  to  write  as  though 
with  their  hands  and  from  their  brains." — New  York  Tribune. 

' '  He  hits  off  some  of  the  peculiarities  of  some  of  the  best  writers 
of  the  day.  He  imitates  with  wit  and  skill." — Critic. 

"  Capital  fooling  .  .  .  remarkably  clever  caricatures.  He  repro- 
duces the  tricks  of  manner  of  all  his  victims  with  a  measure  of  skill 
which  is  flattering  to  them,  as  it  shows  he  has  studied  them  and  thinks 
them  worth  studying,  and  most  entertaining  to  the  sophisticated 
reader." — New  York  Times'  Saturday  Re-view. 

"  A  series  of  excellent  burlesques  and  parodies.  .  .  .  Never  have 
the  solemn  platitudes  of  Marie  Corelli,  the  extravagances  of  John 
Oliver  Hobbes,  the  verbal  contortions  of  George  Meredith,  the  self- 
mocking  paradoxes  of  Bernard  Shaw,  and  the  simpering  common- 
places of  Sir  John  Lubbock,  been  hit  off  with  a  nicer  art  or  a  serener 
wit." — New  York  Herald. 

"Worthy  of  the  best  traditions  of  its 'peculiar  and  difficult  art  in 
English  letters." — New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"Not  only  fun,  it  is  also  delicate  literary  criticism." — Dial. 

' '  Every  paragraph,  every  line  reflects  the  diction  and  personality 
of  the  victim  of  the  moment  .  .  .  parody  at  its  best. " — Chicago  Post. 

"Amusing  and  decidedly  witty." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"  Touched  with  a  distinction  that  is  somewhat  rare  in  the  field  of 
modern  parody.  A  corrective  in  the  matter  of  popular  taste." — 
Baltimore  News. 

"  Parody  refined  to  the  degree  that  it  becomes  originality." — Pub- 
lic Opinion. 

"Excellently  done." — San  Francisco  Argonaut. 

"He  is  as  clever  a  cartoonist  with  his  pen  as  Thomas  Nast  with 
his  pencil." — Portland  (Me.)  Press. 

HENRY    HOLT   &   CO.       29 


If  you  want  to  know 

Who  wrote  it, 

Who  painted  it, 

Who  modelled  it, 

Who  built  it, 

Who  composed  it, 
And  what  it  was  like, 
Consult 

The  New  Volume  of  Champlin's 

Young    Folks'    Cyclopaedia 

Literature  and  Art 

With  270  Illustrations 
604  pp.  8vo.     $2.50 

As  the  author  covers  so  many  subjects,  he  of  course  is  obliged  to 
confine  himself  to  the  more  important  books,  poems,  plays,  tales, 
pictures,  statues,  buildings,  operas  (grand  and  comic),  symphonies  and 
songs.  And  yet  he  might  almost  say  of  his  book  as  a  popular  play- 
wright said  of  his  drama,  that  it  was  not  only  up  to  date  but  up  to  the 
day  after  to-morrow,  for  he  includes  such  headings  as  "  Sherlock 
Holmes,"  "David  Harum,"  "Hugh  Wynne,"  "To  Have  and  to 
Hold,"  "  The  Man  with  the  Hoe,"  and  "  Richard  Carvel." 

The  scope  of  the  book  is  remarkable,  for  though  there  are  synop- 
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Lohengrin,  for  instance),  such  half-forgotten  ones  as  "Cortez"  and 
"  L'Elisire  d'Amore  "  are  not  omitted.  The  index  contains  some  8700 
references,  covering  all  the  principal  characters  in  mythology  and 
literature,  while  several  of  the  characters  have  devoted  to  them 
articles  additional  to  those  on  the  books  in  which  the  characters  appear. 

Though  written  for  the  young,  this  book  is  in  no  way  childish, 
and  may  serve  equally  well  for  adults,  for  whom  it  selects  and  arranges 
material  from  many  large  volumes. 

v 

a.**  12-page  circular  with  sample  pages  of  Champlin  s  four  Youn.% 
folks'  Cyclopadias  and  of  his  War  for  the  Union,  free,      r 


HrM  T    RT    CC\      29  "West  23d  Street,  Hew  York 
rlU'Ll     CX    \~,\J.     378  Wabast  Avenue,  Chicago 

VIII  *O2 


"A  remarkable  romance  .  .  .  told  witli  wonderful  skill."— A^.  K. 

Times'   Saturday  AeZ'iew. 

THE  WINDING  ROAD 

By  ELIZABETH  GODFREY.      12 mo.     $1.50 

Referring  to  the  "best  selling  novels,"  The  Literary  World 
says:  "A  list  of  the  best  novels  without  reference  to  their  'selling' 
would  be  very  much  more  to  the  purpose."  Then  it  gives  a  list  of 
nine  of  what  it  considers  "the  best  novels"  recently  published. 
Among  them  are  THE  WINDING  ROAD  and  THE  WOOING  OF  SHEILA. 
In  a  "buying  list  of  recent  books  recommended  by  the  library  com- 
missions of  Iowa,  Minnesota,  Wisconsin,  Idaho,  Nebraska,  and  Dela- 
ware." books  of  unusual  merit  are  marked  f,  and  those  recommended 
for  first  purchase  with  an  asterisk.  The  only  book  receiving  both 
marks  is  THE  WINDING  ROAD. 

"A  winningly  fantastic  story  of  a  gypsy  wanderer,  a  gypsy  fiddle, 
and  a  girl  who  was  not  a  gypsy.  .  .  .  Miss  Godfrey  has  contrived 
to  combine  and  expand  her  materials  in  a  fresh  and  original  way, 
and  has  made  a  new  and  pretty  tale." — Nation. 

"As  wild  a  story  as  ever  was  thought  of,  and  in  its  conception 
undoubted  talent  has  been  shown.  ...  It  shows  that  Elizabeth 
Godfrey  has  brilliant  literary  capabilities.  .  .  .  Will  surely  leave  an 
impress  on  the  memory  of  the  reader." — N.  Y.  Times'  Saturday 
Review. 

"  This  charming  story.  .  .  .  A  prose  poem. " — Philadelphia  Times. 

"  A  welcome  relief  from  the  current  trend  of  fiction." — Book-Buyer. 

"  Miss  Godfrey  has  written  nothing  but  what  was  good,  but  '  The 
Winding  Road'  is  her  best.  ...  A  true  romance  of  the  road,  the 
road  that  runs  at  nightfall  straight  into  the  enchanted  land  which, 
willy  nilly,  must  be  explored  to-morrow.  .  .  .  By  those  to  whom  its 
speech  is  the  vernacular  and  whose  taste  it  hits,  it  will  be  counted  a 
beautiful  book — a  handful  of  well  water  to  one  athirst  in  the  desert." — 
Chicago  Post. 

"  Seen  with  poetic  vision  and  touched  with  delicate  skill." — Outlook. 

"  Remarkable  for  its  artistic  truth.  .  .  .  The  character  of  Jasper 
is  a  real  human  document.  .  .  .  The  fascination  of  the  story 
resides  to  a  considerable  extent  in  the  mystery  of  the  man's  origin. 
.  .  .  The  travels  of  the  pair  in  France,  Greece,  and  elsewhere 
seem,  like  the  character  drawing,  to  be  based  on  actual  experience. 
It  is  a  story  of  unusual  attraction." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  One  of  the  few  notable  books  of  the  season." — Era. 

Two  Earlier  Novels  by  Miss  Godfrey 

POOR  HUMAN  NATURE.    $1.50  THE  HARP  OF  LIFE.    $1.50 

A  STORY  OF  AN  ENGLISH  VIOLINIST. 

A  STORY  OF  OPERA  SINGERS.  .«she  has  iiterary  skill,  grace   deli- 

"  It   is  curiously  convincing.  ...  It        facy.  .  .  .  Her   artistic   sense    is  very 

is  well  written,  it  is  nobly  felt,  it  is  alto-        k,_een-  J  he  characterization  is  effective 

gether  an  admirable  work. "--&><>£>«*«.        throughout.  ...  1  his  masterly  tale." 

— boston  Iranscnpt. 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO.         29 

vii  '02 


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